Frustrated.

So we're back to the TopHeavy.com crap again. Despite legal threats, the webmaster has put the photos of women at faire back up on his site after we got them all removed last year. Christ. You know what makes me the most perplexed, though? Last year, there were hysterics about it. This year, no one's saying much of anything.

Some of those photos, though...Jesus. What the hell were these women THINKING? You go out in public with your breasts all the way out, and this kind of thing WILL HAPPEN. And now the photos aren't just on TopHeavy.com, but on another site called Top-Sex.com. Stolen or deliberately moved, I don't know. I spent an hour or more going through the TH site archives-- ugh-- but I'm not eager to go through the new site. I want to get these asses, but I reeeally don't want to subscribe to a pay site-- cheap or not. What a mess.

Thank G-d the Local 9 women have more sense than G-d gave a turnip, though. I think I've ONCE had to ask someone to be a bit more discreet, and then t'was only a bit, and for a Walk.

Oubliette.

I'm cruising Craig's List for Philly, all the jobs they have offered. And I just want to cry. I have a birthday in two weeks, and I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. Yes, yes, I want to live making corsets, but that's a ways off, yet. I just feel like everything I've touched lately has turned to ash.

Part of it, I'm depressed to find, it that I'm dreading my birthday. I have no plans. I don't know what I want. I don't have what I really want. I'm even doubting my ability to get it. G-d, did I mention the tired?


But on a completely different note, I did one very good thing today.




Came home before sunset. That's good. Tired, but Jay called-- I'd called and left a message for him: the Jackson & Perkins catalog came, and oh, the roses!-- so I grabbed my cell and the dog's leash and took Clue for a longish walk.

So we get to the far end of the property, and Clue's having hysterics about a drainpipe. About six inches across, going straight down about four feet into the grass. And she's not just trying to inhale it: she's sticking her nose in, and jumping back, and creeping up, and jerking back, and staring, and utterly focussed, and wantswantswants to get into that pipe. So I say to Jay, "Hold on a sec." And I go over and look down the pipe.

Nothing.

Wait. That nothing is squirming.

Race back to the house, ditch dog and cell phone. Grab gloves, oversize towel, and leather jacket. Race back to hole. Put on gloves and jacket. Lie down full length on grass. Pray. Grab. Reach. Grab again. Plead. Pull VERY carefully.

Emerge with shaking, terrified, filthy orange tabby.

That cat, that poor cat, had been HEAD DOWN in that pipe, half-covered in slime, for G-d knows how long. I'm incredibly lucky that it wasn't vicious-- I had NO idea what I was going to do if, in its fear, it'd tried to bite or scratch me. As it happens, it had a collar and tags on, and I recognised it from a house on the other side of the fence from my complex. I even went to the door, holding the cat, to knock on the door and tell its family what'd happened, and perhaps suggest a vet's visit. But no one was home.

I just hugged poor, smelly tabby for a while, while it shook, then, finally, started purring furiously, rubbing its head against me and gifting me with some delightful sludge and a good measure of cat fur.

Soon enough, however, the poor beslimed thing remembered its tattered dignity, and, with a last fond purr, retreated to its front step to spend some time in seclusion, and giving its fur a sorely-needed bath. Thinking it an excellent idea, I did the same.

I suppose I should take this as a lesson: no matter how bad things get, at least I'm not head down in a pipe full of sewage. That's something.