P and S’s to my friend Daniel of tinyblog. He got the mad skills, he know how to pay the bills, rinse, repeat. He is responsible for the eye pain you are now experiencing. I said, “PINK! And CHARTREUSE!” and he said, “Copy pink and chartreuse.” I said, “Pictures of me, the pretty princess!” And he said, “Copy pretty princess.” I said, “Unicorns as entry dividers!” and he said, “N-O.”

I love him!

Thanks to everyone who extended the redesign offer. I chose Daniel because I have known him forever and he’s in town so I could lean on him like a pest and not feel guilty.

Daniel makes other, for real, webpages here, with his partner who drinks beer out of a screw-top jar: Robotic Cat Communications.

My fella, the future-possible-children’s-librarian, had a job interview yesterday for a reference position in Wyoming. Unfortunately (and I can’t believe that I would ever say unfortunately about Wyoming), it looks like they only had one for-sure position. Since I am not going on at the university this fall, we have both made a crazy plan to jump ship together, at least for a year. It’s too bad; I wanted to have a bizarre adventure with cowboy poetry and rocks and sun and community outreach at a struggling library.

They would probably hire him, as he worked there last summer, but we both agree that Wyoming is a bring-your-own-booty (BYOB) state. Wyoming is so sparsely populated and demographically skewed so far away from people in their twenties, who bail out for better opportunities anywhere else, that “Bring Your Own Booty” should probably be the state motto. I told him he could go on his own, but how can you effectively show a person how to use the catalogue if you are sexually frustrated? It’s not like there are hot clones of myself running around there, like I imagine there are in, say, New York.

I feel so much freer now that I can pursue my interest in living in a small town. When I was living in Phoenix before I got knocked up, I felt this pull towards Flagstaff and spent as much time there as I could. Between being married to someone who was a jazz musician who wanted to live in a major city to pursue music, and needing to be near a university, I was pretty much stuck. Now I’m not.

So the plan for now is to find someplace cool that needs a Thing One and a Thing Two, with acceptable education options for the little Thing. I think this can be done.

The Guru Speaketh:

You, Searchers, desperately enter terms into the magic box. Somehow, you end up at this godforsaken internet outpost, I, Asshole. I am here for you, Goog-divers.

Ode+to+a+Librarian

We don’t have any odes to librarians here. I wasn�t even considering working in a library until, like, last week. However, we do have inflammatory diatribes about our future colleagues. Who will probably not have kind words to say about us when we try to enter the working world. Methinks I will step up my out-of-state job search.

Chased+cunt+2004

I haven’t dated a girl since 1996, at least. I suspect my status as a card-carrying member of Gen-Bi is about to expire.

Video+of+a+girl+crapping

Make me an offer!

What+girls+want

1) Copious amounts of head.
2) Ice cream that comes out of a special tap in the wall.
3) Bling
4) Rinse, repeat

Girls+that+want+to+fuck

We at the offices of I, Asshole are outraged at this search string. It’s “girls who want to fuck.” Fix your cocksucking grammar and maybe you won�t be home on a Saturday night trolling for porn.

Butt+floss+girls+naked+babies

How can you possibly want all these things at once? Naked girls? Or naked babies? Babies wearing butt floss? Be-flossed girls holding naked babies? The mind reels.

Open+asshole

Yeah, we open.

My nice school friend was over yesterday, and we toiled away at this ongoing irritating project, punctuating the tedium with lots of mindless chit-chat.

“So, whatcha gonna do for the rest of the day?” my friend asked. The weather was nice, but windy, and I knew I could get out if I wanted to.

“Unfortunately, I have an assload of laundry to do,” I replied.

“Oh, that’s too bad.” She gathered up her things and prepared to scram out of the Asscave.

“Yeah, I have to wash my sheets a lot more often now that when I was married,” I said.

“Yargh! TMI! TMI!”

My friend. I love her, but she is going to have to get used to this nonsense if she wants to hang.

In Other News, I Am On the MF Jones

I am on the Motherfucking Jones, dudes. Things I want, in no particular order:

Cute Boy(s): I don’t feel like working on my paper anymore, so I now require service.

No mas head cold: However, the cute boy(s) would probably run screaming if they knew that part of the conditions of their service involved getting covered with intermittent bursts of snot. There’s always that conundrum: I want a cute boy(s) who will love me even if I am snotty, but then…who wants a boy who will stand there like a little bitch, being sneezed on? That’s probably a fetish, even. I am NOT going to Google that.

And don’t email me; I will not sneeze on you. Unless you buy me three sidecars. Also this, I really need this. Perhaps I should add it to my Wishlist.

No mas winter quarter: Winter quarter is now a hellride of epic proportions. Yes, I would chew off my own paw to get out. Flossing my teeth with the tendons in my wrist sounds delightful at this point. March twelfth, please get here. We don’t need no stabberation, immolation, in the dancerie.

No mas faux Spanish

A Brazillian, just for kicks: When things get boring, I get stupid. Things are so dull lately in a lot of ways, that I am considering getting most of the hair yoinked off my No-No Place for no good reason. I am supposed to go to a place where there are hot springs for spring break, and apparently the freakers in Washington State get starkers in them, even in March. So other occupants of the hot spring will get to see “interesting ” scars, stretchmarks, “creative pubes,” as well as goose flesh all over my body, instead of just the places I stick out of my swimsuit. Lucky, lucky, fucking nudists.

A cocksucking, motherfucking surfboard

For all my evil schemes to work out in the most righteous way possible: I wish I could tell you more than that, but I don’t want to jinx what I have cooking in the next couple of days. I will reveal all soon. I say that as if you are the edge of your seat, waiting to see how my riveting life unfolds.

No complaints, so that’s passing for a good mood today.

Actually, maybe I have one complaint. I am peeing endlessly today. ENDLESSLY. I think that my skin and cells are being converted to liquid. I am imagining myself running out, like hourglass sand. There will be nothing left at the end of the day…dried up, a husk.

I have actually been willing people to SHUT UP today as they have been talking to me, because I’m just thinking, “I GOTTA P, YO.” Interesting conversations, too…about…stuff. Fuck, I can’t remember, I GOTTA PEE.

I am thinking about all the peeing I have done, in places I shouldn’t have. Once, after the Windy City Weed Fest, I peed in downtown Chicago inbetween two open car doors. Right into the gutter. I have peed in one million pools and I am not sorry. It’s fun to be in the middle of the warm cloud of pee, especially if the pool is cold. I have peed outside of everyone’s house on their rhodies as I was gettin’ a drunk on. If you dare to get in the shower with me, I will motherfucking pee on you, and you will think the shower just randomly hotted up as you are closing your eyes and shampooing.

This entry is useless because I have to pee right now. Gotta P!

I am having one of those periods where I am being an A+, prime grade, less-than-7-percent-fat Assmitten. I chalked up my rough January to moving out of my old house and immediately starting school, so I was losing crap and forgetting about deadlines and whatnot. Now it is almost March and I still have my head about halfway up my ass. I feel like I have some parts of Grown-up 101 down cold, whereas I am taking remedial courses to make up for some of the other logic I seem to be missing.

Case in point: in late January I put my rent check, ready to be mailed, in my purse and then left my apartment, assuming I would run across a mailbox as I was out. What I did was drop it somewhere as I wandered all over town. I believe this was the night of the mai tais. I wigged and mailed another one, while trying to put a stop payment on the first one. However, St. What’s-His-Bucket was clearly looking out for alcoholic morons or whatevs, because I got a call from my confused landlord saying that he had received two rent checks from me. Some kind fucker had picked up my check and mailed it. Now I’m paid up through March! Thanks, St. W.H.B.

Moral: Pay bills, and then drink beer before liquor. No! Don’t do that, either. Pay bills, and then have a quiet cup of Earl Grey.

More: on the last day of my PhD interview days, I woke up late and ran out to the car I was borrowing, because I was late. I had that internal scream because I was all unshowered and late and hadn’t been home yet and the mental clock was ticking and I could hear that evil-lady robotic James Bond immanent-doom announcer counting down in my head: “T-minus forty minutes until deto-nation.” And then I saw the inch of frost on all the windows. The poor, innocent woman across the street who was genteelly scraping ice off her windshield with a genuine ice scraper was giving me understated dirty looks as I was frantically gouging at my ice with my debit card and yelling “Cocksucker! Cocksucker! Cocksucker!”

KER-Snap. My debit card shattered into three pieces, which are still living in the bottom of one of my purses. Seven-to-ten business days later, I am still waiting for my beautiful debit card. I think I miss it more than I would one of my lungs. I have had to go into fuckity branches and withdraw money, and when I don’t have money I have had to write checks. I’m all for being retro, but this is ridiculous.

The stupid compounds and multiplies: I lost my driver’s license yesterday (don’t ask) and today I realized I couldn’t get money or write checks without ID, except at my one grocery store that I had written a check at, who had me in the computer. I walked down there with Frannie to replace all my crappity moldy food and was confronted by a dark store and hand-scrawled sign that said “Sorry! Electrical problems! Store is closed until 2:00 2:30 3:00 3:45.” That was looking bad…we wandered to the park and came back, and it finally reopened, which is great, because now I have some crapping food.

All right, universe, I get it! I will try harder to be smarter. I will behave myself more. I will NEVER use anything important from my wallet to scrape ice. I certainly hope I am done getting my karmic spanking now, because I am good and tired.

In Other, Cattier News

Hot, hot, hot gossip: Supa ran into my baby�s daddy and his lady at one of the big local parks yesterday. I just peeped my archives and I think I forgot to tell you that he hooked up with this woman less than a week after I moved out of the house. Supa said it was awkward, to say the least.

Me: I need details! What does she look like?

Supa: Well…looks like he traded down, that’s for sure.

Me: I don’t think he had time to be selective. I heard she has a car and a job and crap, though.

Supa: That must count for something.

Me: I need adjectives, yo.

Supa: Mousy. I walked away and the first thing I said to Mr. Supa was “mousy.”

All of what Supa said may be slightly hyperbolic, but I love her for saying it. He was at the park with his lady after having my mother pick Frannie up to watch Frannie during his time with her. My mom offered to do this which is not surprising; the grown-up part of me just wants to say “oh, AIIIIGHT,” and the fifteen-year-old part of me says “can’t you summon up one ounce of loyalty?” Perhaps I should phone her and ask her as she is making dinner for him tonight. Give my mom a nipple, cause she SUCKS.

Okay, I’m doing my part to Spread Santorum everywhere. Here’s a summary of the Santorum issue, from Rotten.com. If you are hip to this, find a place to link to Dan Savage’s crusade on your site, because we need to Googlebomb that fucker. I goog’ed “Santorum” this morning and got the Senator’s website. Boo!

Warning: I am ON THE WIG. My PhDude interview is Monday. I am going out to attempt to buy a couple of nice blouses for the two-day-PhDude recruitment extravaganza. I will distract myself by doing some boring girlie-obsessing.

This will be challenging, because I am not enough of an Amazon to shop at the Giant Tall Lady store. Also, the very smallest of the Lane Bryant sizes don’t fit me anymore. I popped in there the other day to see if they had something that would accommodate my attractive giant ribcage/shoulder/rack triple threat, but I have lost so much weight that I have been rendered invisible to the sales clerks, so I took the hint and got out. I got a kick-ass pair of obsequiously-vanity-sized trousers at Express, but all their tops are for people who are in proportion with their bottom halfs. I think I will have to settle for something I can stretch over my disproportionate upper half. Sometimes I think I am built like a turkey baster, or perhaps a really fucked-up hour glass.

Monday and Tuesday will be a total freakout. They want you all day long, and will be plying us with coffee and sugar throughout. I think they want to see if you can stand up under the typical PhD diet. I will have to smuggle in some protein in my bag. I can just see myself after the faculty lecture, snarfing turkey jerky in the big stall of the ladies room, as the can is demonically flushing and re-flushing itself.

Wish me luck getting into the cult of IS. If they take me, I’ll see you real-life peeps when they let me out in 2008. However, no matter how bogged down I get, I will always schedule time for sex. Priorities, fuckers!.

In Other, Marginally More Interesting News

I am back in the field tonight, doing interviews. It is going really well and I am very excited by the results. I feel like I am supposed to be doing research. It sounds corny, and I can’t believe I’m even going to commit this to text, but: I may have found my life’s work.

I am not scratching bail bondsman off the list yet, however.

Hey, Jerks! Think that the fucker at this blog doesn’t update often enough? Need MORE Asshole? We at the offices of I, Asshole proudly present: “Quit Whining and Do-It-Yourself, Asshole!”

Choose One Or More From Each Section to Make Your Own I, Asshole*:

One: Title

Choose one from A and one from B:

A: Hey/OMG/In Which I, Asshole/I Hate/Dicklicker

B: Fuckers!/Eat Me!/Shut the Fuck Up!/Boys!/Humping!/Assmittens!

Okay, a title! Now we’re cooking with gas!

Two: Subject Matter

Choose one or more essay topics from the following:

-I drank too much last night!
-My little girl is driving me crazy/I love my little girl sooo much!
-My baby daddy!
-My issues with my mother!
-How/why my sister owns!
-My giant rack!
-Something about vulvas/personal hygiene/personal hygiene and vulvas!
-Graduate School is destroying my soul!

Bonus! Combine one or more topics.

E.g.: “I drank too much last night and now my little girl is driving me crazy!” “My sister owns…my vulva!” “My issues with my mother are affecting my personal hygiene and my vulva!”

Three: Visual Enhancements

Don’t forget to post an unflattering picture. Be sure you have a double chin/visible acne in the photo.

Four: Essentials

Careful statistical analysis of I, Asshole has revealed that the following words/phrases appear with the most frequency:

Assmitten
Humpers
Perps/Peeps
The F-Bomb and other swears
“If you want the money, you will have to eat my corpse.”
Sex/sex machine
Luscious rack

Bonus! Write pseudo-intelligently and pretentiously, and then sprinkle your writing with lots of swears. Avoid contractions! Tres sophistique and “cutting-edge.”

E.g.: It was a delightful stroll, followed by a veritable repast for the intellect. Fuckers!

If you follow these four simple steps, you, too, can have internet stalkers attempting to buy their way into your pants, as we at the offices of I, Asshole do. Good luck!

*The author of this tutorial takes no responsibility if you get Dooced, flamed by librarians, or lose friends.

Aiiight, I pinned the PhDude advisor into the corner this morning and asked him what the PhD application pool had been whittled down to. It went from 75 to 24 people, and I’m one of them. “Very competitive this year,” he kept saying. In addition to the toob top I bought yesterday, I also invested in some nice trousers for the PhDude interviews in early February. I will not be wearing both articles at the same time, so save it.

They might take twelve perps. Now I know how many people I need to kneecap. Where, oh where, is my Jeff Gillooly?