the vulgar fictions of a demented irishman.

sometimes, i assure you, it is absolutely imperative that one dresses like a victorian lady of little virtue. this is especially true if it is a decision made and acted upon at two o'clock in the morning, when one has no plans other than wrapping winter gifts.

crazy american mix-em-ups party.

i did two things that scared me today. one of them left me shaking, like new metal or sex. i'd seem to be more hormone than human these days.

and lately i'm frustrated with myself for having boundaries. that sounds strange, i suppose. i used to be a wall made of obsidian. (by the way, finn, did you know it has been nearly a year since we stopped seeing one other? time moves so very quickly. again, strange.) there are still the things i won't say. that will always be true. i'm too much the servant boy to ever be frank. but i'm becoming much less tolerant of things i think that i cannot do. fear seems a foolish thing by which to be controlled. (it is not easy to be made of wolves, but i do enjoy it.)

also, it would seem that i'm a non-lover once more. thank goodness. that lover nonsense was awful.

a proposal:

pittsburgh: thursday the sixth is twelfth night. clearly, that weekend deserves a lord of misrule party. would you be opposed to an event at which you could be a gender, genre, era, and/or social station different than your own? costumes and characters would be encouraged, libations would be provided, and mischief will be expected. gods, monsters, and heroes welcome.