hermaphrodite love

Hermaphroditism happens. It just does, and it must suck. I can't decide if this dress is designed to help herms or to mock them. Could go either way, really. That gathering near the groin might allow you to hide your fiddlestick, but it might also do a job that a flashing neon sign could have done more efficiently.
"Hey, what's that bulge?"
"Oh, Pat's just so in love!"

Oh, and if you ever wish to subject yourself to pure sonic torture, try "Unsingable Name" by Mike Doughty. Thanks to 89.3 The Current for making me suffer through it for the last three minutes or so. It's the aural equivalent of watching a naked Bert (of 'and Ernie' fame) and Karl Rove rub feces on each other.

In other, less revolting news, our kitchen is well on its way to completion. The old window is out, the new window is in, the resulting hole from said action has been sealed up. Wiring, insulation, drywall, and painting are done, and flooring is underway. A trip to IKEA for cabinets is pending. Hallelujah, our stove arrives on Wednesday.

Oh, and we pulled more staples. The same crazed junkie (who was about four speedballs past 'fucked up') that did the stapling through out the rest of the house was at it in the kitchen too. And when Cory cleaned out one of the air ducts that he had to move, he found:
-a green plastic whistle shaped like a bird
-a pencil
-a pen
-a toy car
-a toy truck
and various and sundry other bits of God knows what. Something tells me a lot of that stems from the family of 10 who lived in this house. Eight of the 10 being little boys. I seizure to think.