The Way Things Are






Reaching surreptitiously for the hand sanitizer.
2006-06-13, 2:26 p.m.

I stand corrected. As it turns out, metabolism is a LOT more complicated than your body just digesting and pooping itself out.

::Sigh:: It turns out that you do something very complicated and chemically, combined with math and little symbols, inside your tummy and possibly your back hiney, and the fatty parts of your body that you are burning as fuel turn into water, which comes out your front hiney, and carbon dioxide, which comes out in your breasts breaths.

Here it is again. I suck. So much for my far-flung theories. I’m going to have to come up with something else equally gross and improbable.

How about this? Since the fat is broken down via a complicated metabolic process, (and by the way, I cannot find the balanced chemical equation for this, so I still have my doubts, because I demand PROOF! PROOF DAMMIT!!) and excreted as carbon dioxide, I hereby proclaim that (1) the more you breathe out, the more fat you will burn and (2) well, that’s it. Or perhaps (2.a.) it’s that when you suspect you are burning some fat, be sure and breathe out a lot. ::pantpantpantpant::

I searched and searched for the balanced chemical equation of fat metabolism, because I want you to know. YOU. You and I and we –all of us need to know. What I found is that it might not be just ONE equation; that there may be lots and lots of scary and complex things going on inside us on a continuous basis. I think this is about as good as I’m going to get.

I won’t even try to ‘splain it to you, or reproduce it here (because I would have to learn how to do subscript, and I am far, far too lazy busy to do that today), because if you can’t read this and figure it out for yourselves, there’s nothing I can do for you. And if you CAN read this and figure it out, please call me because you are HOTT. (hott!)

I did manage to entertain myself for quite a long while, because as you may have suspected, my interests and my natural aptitudes are at war with each other. I’m a real good reader and speller and grammarer, and I sometimes even diagram sentences in my head just for fun, and I like to make sure folks know I’m good at that kind of crap, but what I really want to do is unlock the mysteries of the universe using science and math. However, me=not so good at math+science.

Oh well. I can always make something up if I don’t really understand what’s going on, and then I can try to sell it to you here. You believe me, don’t you?


Here’s something else that I don’t fully (or even barely) understand, but it takes my breath away to look at it: Yeah, balance THIS (grabbing cliggas for emphasis).

Tsetse metabolism! Just in case you wuz wondering.

Here it is “clarified”, or so they say. You will enjoy the photos of Princess Di, as well as the polar bears. I enjoyed this article for its comprehensive attempt to explain EVERYTHING, even princesses and bears and how they pertain to metabolism.


Wow - I thought for a moment, Miranda was hanging out with Danny Bonaduce. Do you have a list? You know you do. For the record, this person is NOT on my list, nor is the real Danny Bonaduce.

I never watched that “Breaking Bonaduce” show, but I wonder if I should live in fear that (1) Danny Bonaduce may be reading this, and will (2) show up and demand to see my list and, (3) will write himself in. He seems like he might be capable of that. I’m locking my door, Danny! Don’t even try it.


This guy has the very best name I have heard in a very long time. He was on the news last night, and I immediately channeled his spirit and entertained myself and my husband and son thusly, utilizing a high, squeaky voice and a lithp: “My name is Benjamin Gwumbles, and I am a big, cuddly teddy bear. I am very gwumpy sometimes, and I need a hug. When I don’t get my tea and cookies, I gwumble and gwumble and gwumble.”

I would like to develop and market a Benjamin Gwumbles doll, and somehow capture the dissonance of the white, WASPy government bureaucracy spokesman and the grumbly teddy bear named Benjamin Gwumbles.


You may have your “Christ on a cracker” and “Christ on a bicycle” and “Christ in rainboots in a rowboat” and your “Sweet Fancy Moses” or whathavya. Amalah and I: we have hot fucking whores on a platter. You can’t take that away from me, and I intend to say it every time I am even mildly surprised. That’s the best thing I have heard all day, Benjamin Gwumbles notwithstanding.


Here’s some fun pillow talk from last night. See if you can guess what happened at the very end:

Me: I love you.
Him: I love you, too.
Me (stroking his bald head and kissing his cheek): You’re a good husband.
Him: Thanks. Hey, have you been pooping green stuff?
Me(!!!!): it salad?
Him: No. It’s poop, but it’s green.
Me (removing my hands from anywhere on his body and reaching surreptitiously for the hand sanitizer, which we don’t really keep on the bedside table, but the sake and purposes of this here journal entry, pretend we do): Hm.


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