It’s true and you can see where this is going.

Pretty soon, we declared that we could sense a disturbance in the Ceiling Cat. The Ceiling Cat is with you, always. May the Ceiling Cat guide you. You’ve fallen to the dark side of Ceiling Cat.

And all of this is retarded, but it was hilarious to us. Donna was drinking excessive amounts of hot-buttered rum at the time, which I may or may not have provided for her. I was drinking egg nog without the booze, so I have no excuse.

The egg nog was probably the last time I’ll see egg nog until Christmas, which is why I had to beat that old lady down. I promise, the bruises will fade in a few days. I’m not a total monster.

Devon, upon creating his toon: “Twi’lek, really? A fucking cultural dance? That’s your special power? Fuck you!”

So far I’m fairly impressed, although my toon is still in newbie land, so there’s a lot more to see before I decide whether it’s going to be my new boyfriend. I need to roll a Sith and see what it’s like to be eeeeeevil. In a video game, I mean.

My Jedi Consular is kind of a dick. In one quest, I bust two young lovers for doing what they do. Jedi are not allowed to fraternize. I felt bad for about a minute before I realized two things:

1) This couple is so cutesy they make me want to vomit, and for that they need to be stopped.
2) The last time a Jedi got his groove on, it led to Episodes 1, 2 and 3. The Jedi are right. Love is a threat to galactic peace and should be squashed beneath my cynical boot heels.

Sorry, kids. You’re gonna have to go back to masturbating like the rest of the Jedi.

Maybe I’m more temperamentally suited to Sith. But that can’t be true, because busting those crazy kids is a light-side choice. Maybe the light side of the force is just an asshole, like me.

The Food and Drug Administration is telling Trent Arsenault of California to stop giving his sperm away like it’s a keg party at Delta Tau Chi.

The best part about this whole story is HuffPo’s headline: “Trent Arsenault, Sperm Donor, Gets Cease Order From FDA.”

Like, it wasn’t enough that this story is made of awesome. HuffPo needs to make sure we remember his name, too. It’s like if I said, “David White, Public Masturbator, Does It All For The Kicks.” I picked that name randomly. If your name is David White, my apologies. Unless you masturbate in public. Then I’m totally right about you. And you’re gonna go blind.

Arsenault is giving the sperm to low-income and gay couples, who he says have a harder time getting donations from sperm banks. I gotta side with Trent on this one. He’s not selling it, and if he were, shall we say, making home deliveries, this wouldn’t be a problem at all.

By “making home deliveries,” I mean “sticking his penis into her vagina.” I worried that wasn’t clear.

I have to agree with George Carlin: “Selling is legal. Fucking is legal. Why isn’t selling fucking legal?” Taking it one step further, why isn’t giving away the byproduct of fucking legal?

C’mon, FDA. Give Trent a chance.

In short, U.S. Department of Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius vetoed the FDA’s decision to make Plan B available over the counter to anyone who wants it. Currently, people 17 and older can get it from a pharmacist with proof of age. Anyone under 17 needs a prescription. Since it needs to be taken within 72 hours of sex to be effective, this makes it very difficult for younger girls to get it.

The FDA decided to make the morning-after pill available to younger girls, but Sebelius used her authority to veto the decision.

Whatever your opinion of abortion, take a look at this statement from Kristi Hamrick, a spokeswoman for Americans United for Life:

“They should not be administered late in a pregnancy because of risk of severe bleeding. In addition, they make vulnerable women and girls even more at risk to abusers who may acquire the drugs to cover up their criminal behavior.”

First: All drugs carry potential side effects, especially when you use them improperly. Aspirin can cause severe bleeding, too, but we don’t ask people to get a prescription for it.

Second: So the only thing holding your sons, fathers, brothers and husbands back from rape is the possibility of pregnancy. Because they would scrub their victims of all DNA evidence after force-feeding them Plan B, I guess. Nice opinion of American men, assholes.

Third: Childbirth is far more hazardous to a woman’s health than anything related to Plan B, especially for young girls.

Another objection to Plan B is that younger girls are not emotionally mature enough to use the pill appropriately. Yet somehow they are emotionally mature enough to raise these babies if they want to, or choose between abortion and adoption. How odd.

I wish these people would just admit that any acknowledgement of teenagers having sex squicks them out. At least it would be honest.

+++++++

This shit’s cool. Trust me:

Smoking can make your nipples fall off
Baby rocks out with her chili
Chuck Norris jokes never get old. Never. 

My other objection was with Hollywood’s hard-on for movies about lonely hot chicks who pine after dickholes. I didn’t buy it on “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” either, where I was expected to believe that Sarah Michelle Gellar couldn’t get a date. Maybe that’s true in TV high schools, where everyone is 24 years old and smoking hot, but in real life, kids look like this.

Dear movie chicks: You are hot. You have this problem only so average-looking and ugly women can relate. If you didn’t bathe for a year and brushed your teeth with dog poo, you’d still have to beat them off with a cattle prod. And that would only make you hotter.

Devon said he knows a few hot women who have had this problem, but I questioned his judgment when he claimed that I look like Kristen Wiig in that scene where she’s primping in her panties and bra. That’s just crazy talk.

Not that I don’t appreciate the flattery, but I’m all, “Dude, you don’t have to bullshit me. I’m ALREADY having sex with you.”

I was going to end this blog entry there, but then Devon came over, trying to be all sweet. It was like a movie scene. He leaned over me as I as sitting in my chair. I looked up and puckered my lips for smoochies, and he had a bronchitis-addled coughing fit right in my face.

A movie scene as written by Ben Stiller, I mean.

I started my first one when I was 6, when they were incoherent, dull exercises in stringing words together, and mostly about what I ate for “diner.” I’ve kept one on and off since then, because I have a short attention span and often leave gaps of months between entries. They’ve remained dull, but with more vulgarity and fewer spelling errors. When I was in high school, I started writing my journal in (piss-poor) French, since I was convinced my mother was reading it.

This was not entirely a paranoid delusion. She used to do things like pull my old, worn-out underwear out of the garbage and say: “Why are you throwing this away? It’s perfectly good!” I didn’t have a lock on the door, but as an 8-year-old, I figured out that I could get some privacy by wedging a broomstick handle between the VHS rack and the door. She was pissed but held at bay. Later, when my ex-husband and I lived with her briefly after moving back from Maryland, she discovered we were no longer having sex by counting the condoms in the sock drawer.

Yeah, she was nuts.

So maybe it’s weird that I’m writing my latest journal as letters to her now. I’m not trying to mail them or anything. Fuck, the post office can’t even get our mail to Colorado. But there’s much I want to tell her, and I figure she’s probably even more shameless now, so I’ll just leave the journal in my underwear drawer under a box of condoms.

If you could write letters to one dead person and have him or her read it, who would it be?

I remember when “Torchwood” first aired, and people were all, “Oh, no, the bisexuals are screwing each other! Won’t anyone think of the children?” and I was like, “Dude, half the time they’re screwing aliens (space aliens, not Mexicans), but you’re OK with that as long as their pee pees interlock?” But now there’s “Fringe,” where people get their fucking eyeballs cut out, and I haven’t heard anyone say a word about it.

Did you hear me? I said they get their FUCKING EYEBALLS CUT OUT! Removal of the eyeballs is not OK!

Over the first two episodes of the series, a hooker was killed when a grandpa baby (it’s a long story) burst out of her uterus (but hey, she was pro-life); a dude killed women by surgically removing their pituitary glands via their mouths while they were still conscious; and people’s skin and muscles melted off their bodies like ice pops under a hot sun. Which I guess is fine, as long as dudes don’t shag each other.

This one time, at Ren Faire, I had to sit down outside to let my stomach settle and the blood flow to my head normalize after the Medieval Implements of Torture exhibit. Screw that guy for laughing at me. I should have hurled all over him, then ripped a grandpa baby out of his stomach just to see how he liked it.

At any rate, “Fringe” is pretty good, even with the torture porn. I’ll keep watching with Devon, since he lets me know when it’s OK to open my eyes.

Over the weekend, I made vanilla ice cream — the best vanilla ice cream you’ve never had, by the way. It was creamy, thanks to one part whole milk to two parts heavy cream and five eggs, blended into a sweet vanilla custard that was left overnight to chill before I mixed it into ice cream. And it tastes like real vanilla, not crappy vanilla flavoring. But I digress.

I had just gotten out of the shower when the ice cream finished mixing, so I dropped my towel to scrape it out. Of course, I needed a taste-tester. For some people, this is the start of a lame porn flick, but my version was produced by NERDoVision, where the dude is playing World of Warcraft with his peeps. So I ended up naked and feeding Devon ice cream while he complained through his headset about his lousy DPS. You win this round, Elite Boss Nerdloc.

I must have bought something for a pregnant friend and ended up on a mailing list, since I’m 32 years old, and all my friends are pregnant, recently pregnant or about to be pregnant.

Look, Parenting magazine, in high school, I was voted “Most Likely to Forget My Baby in a Hot Car During Summer.” I don’t need you getting all up in my uterus/grill.