Netflix’s ‘That ’90s Show’ Renewed for Season 2 — I am going to find it extremely difficult to sit through another season of this show. The kids are just… the more I watch, the worse they get. Also, it feels nothing like the ‘90s… more like 2011, at best.
Fears | Is It Normal? —You give a one-sentence description of your fear, and people vote on whether or not your fear is normal. The ratings can be somewhat surprising.
‘King Of The Hill’ Revival Ordered By Hulu; Original Cast Returning — I’m happy to return to Rainey St., but (a) no mention of the all-important Toby Huss and (b) the obvious absences of both Brittany Murphy and Tom Petty mean that I’m going to remain cautious in my optimism.
Nostr iPhone app Damus makes it to the App Store — Serverless, and moderated only at the relay level. So Nostr is either an interesting opportunity for those who are routinely deplatformed… or one more crypto play dressed up in communal drag. Hard to tell right now.
Prince of Packaging: A tale of 1990s box art — Jordan Mechner was a childhood hero of mine. Which is funny, ‘cause he was pretty much a kid during his period of greatest productivity.
You say you love me, and it’s for me that you were born.
But will you burn your world, my dear, just to keep me warm?
Attention and the Acquisition Thereof — 2023 Edition
I’ve gone into the specifics of what I want in other places… thIs is more about the form and function of interaction. It’s intended to help steer you around common pitfalls and pratfalls, dramatically increasing the chances that I will leave you feeling embarrassed and embarrassing as usual, but also wet.
Becauae the good Lord giveth even as the good Lord taketh away.
Mostly taketh, really.
There’s only so good a Lord can be expected to be.
If you’re going to introduce yourself on Tumblr, assume I’m going to look at your Tumblr and develop opinions. So, y’know… you might want to look into that, @stripperheelsanddiaperpails378.
Y’know what’s pretty? Patience and humility. Politeness makes me smile. You like it when I smile. I just know it.
There are all kinds of “Hi”s. The unadorned “Hi” bounces off me like bullets off Christopher Reeve. “Hi, I love your writing” is a lovely thought, and merits a thank you. “Hi, I’m nervous but wanted to introduce myself” earns you points for grace and my vague awareness. “Hi, what would you do to me if…” makes me want to lock you in a giant sunglasses case and then Spock Rocket you out a photon torpedo tube into the fucking sun.
Leading with a photo could be your masterstroke, or your downfall. If you get any response at all, I appreciated the effort. If you get a vague compliment, I think you’re nice. If I critique you harshly or speak derisively of your appearance, then you’ve either stupidly asked for it, or I like you a lot and know you well. If I’m anxious to see more, congratulations, other girls secretly hate you. Play the odds, see what happens.
It’s probably prudish of me, but I’m not into the whole “my guy wants me to do X with a stranger and I thought…” thing. I’m genuinely flattered to have been considered, but I must decline the invitation to the party.
Dear Sad, Quiet Puppies: You gathered up all of your little Pomeranian-like courage all those months/years ago, and you reached out to me… and… thud. I either dropped the conversation early, or ignored you entirely. You felt stupid and beneath notice. (Which, honestly, is quite sexy of you.) I was probably depressed at the time, but the reason doesn’t matter any more than you do. What matters is that you failed to spark my interest. But, hey, let’s face it… someday you’re going to try again. And I just wanted to tell you in advance to be brave, it’ll be okay, and remind you that if you’ve used your time wisely, you’ve probably learned a thing or two. You’ll do better. (If you’ve been unwise, well, have fun with that.)
This blog is coming up on its ninth birthday in a few months. I have posted thousands of words here, and they have all been lovingly crafted to convey both my intent and a few scraps of entertainment. I have posted on most every topic that crossed my mind. So there is no sane reason for you to wriggle up to me without having a very good idea of the sort of precipice you’re approaching. By the time you knock on my door, you should know a lot of what I want, and most of what I don’t. I should never feel unknown to you… I’m a recurring note of existential dread, not a jump-scare.
I can’t believe I have to explain this to grown-ass women, but here we are: you have to get to know me first. Your existence and availability are not inherently attractive. I am neither All That nor A Bag of Chips, but I am well-supplied with fodder for my cannon, and you will need to bring something of value to Bunker Hill if you want me watching for the whites of your eyes.
Did I just threaten you with an artillery barrage comprised to some extent of semen? It’s possible. Embrace ambiguity and keep up, dummy.
Life Lessons
Don’t let your insecurity lead you to searching for imaginary slights when you’re already floating in a sea of my approval. I might begin to worry you don’t appreciate me, and that… will not go well for you.
Because I will boil that fucking sea away, little girl.
