But I have to publicly worship her hands. Oh, god. I want to make her the beneficiary of my insurance policies. When she was done with me, I understood how Katie has been feeling when she's all comfy on her bed and we've had to lift her up and put her on her feet to get her to go outside. I needed someone to lift me off the massage table and help me write the check. Ungh.

And the only thing that keeps me from hitting on my masseuse is the knowledge of how wildly inappropriate that would be. But what do you expect? I'm lying there on my back as she kneads my neck, and I can feel her breath on my face. Good breath. Nice smelling breath. That's a very intimate position to be in. I wanted to place my hand on the back of her neck and pull her down and kiss her.

It's like when Sara and I go for a long walk. When we're done, we stand outside her back door and have a deep, fucking hot kiss. A just reward for our efforts. I want to kiss my massag therapist when I hand her the check. But her girlfriend might not like that idea much.

And speaking of bad TV (which I was several paragraphs ago), I was working on a new graphic last night, trying to figure out how to get it to be a transparent gif, and I had the TV on in the other room for background noise.

"Pop Stars" came on.

Holy shit. I couldn't hear the dialog, but I heard the singing tryouts. Those girls sucked so hard there are new holes in the ozone layer.

Imagine if I were some anorexic 19 year old who wore way too much mascara, pulled little tufts of my hair into rubberbands for no good reason, and wore my pants down around my extremely pokey-outey hip bones, and people considered this sexy. (In reality, I am beautiful and sexy in the way that the character Stuart from "Spin City" would be if he were a stumpy butch dyke.)

But imagine that my singing voice was exactly the same as it is in real life. And imagine that I thought I would be a suitable candidate for a singing group. Imagine a stinkiness so intense that pig farms couldn't compare. Jeezus. Those auditioners made the sounds that make doves cry.

Then I watched "Popular," which I've recently discovered, and thoroughly enjoyed its surreality. One character, trying to speak in terms that rich-and-shallow (as if that would distinguish her from several other characters on the show) Mary Cherry could relate to, described homeless, destitute people with nowhere to live, nothing to eat, and no friends to help them out as, "really, really, really unpopular."

Alright. I'd better stop now. Deb and I are going out to our local independent pizza seller tonight (where I don't like the sauce, but we feel we have to support them because we have nothing else in the way of non-fast food). Maybe we'll build a fire, spread a blanket on the living room floor and watch Britcoms. I would so have sex with Dawn French from "The Vicar of Dibley." That is one big, sexy woman.

For now, I'm going to go fix a sinfully loaded turkey meatloaf sandwich, and then I think I've got some masturbating to do.

My hit counter may trip 1,000 this weekend. Woo-hoo. Thanks to all the Legionairres.