January 31st:

HOBBY? Who the hell decided to put smoking under HOBBIES? Auntie calls it many things, and she is a smoker herself, but she would never, ever, ever, ever, EVER class it has a HOBBY. Next they'll put smack and crack under Hobbies.

You men are packs of ungrateful rat bastards and Auntie hopes your testicles all explode. I hate each and every one of you with a profoundly individual but no less meaningful passion. I don't know why the human race continues to perpetuate, except that apparently the rest of the chicks out there lack my fine sense of discernment.

That sentiment came of contact with an old "friend" of Auntie's. He is not an ex-partner of Auntie's. He is, however, a jerk rat bastard and she hopes he gets some unsightly, embarrassing disease that is not quite bad enough to warrant sick leave. He is a cowardly little -- watch the F word, Ms. Dynamite -- nitwit. I'd like to break my umbrella over his head.

February 1st:

Spellbound by the beguiling Gary Gygax. The man is the verbal equivalent to a stripper. He sounds like he eats nails and belches files. He can keep his anatomy intact; Auntie likes him.

Reading I Killed Hemingway. To be recommended. So is Hitler Versus Me. A veritable flood of pseudo-historical hysteria burbles over Auntie's shelves.

February 2nd:

Prior to Auntie's investure in her present abode, there was a huge hole in the living room wall. Within this hole was a tribe of bees. They honeycombed the drywall. There was honey being made right inside Auntie's house-to-be.

The bees are gone now, and they did not ask if Auntie wanted fries with that.

February 3rd:

Auntie apparently went out without me and exercised her power to cloud men's minds. She procured her own e-mail address off my personal domain name. I don't want to get into how many gateways she sweet talked to even get to the machine.

Let alone what stupefyingly sordid favors she must have promised the administrator. Suffice to say I was asleep for the entire duration and I know nothing about it.

I have visions of hundreds of routers, trailing cable like plastic medusa snakes, converging outside my house. Sort of like the worm obesiance in Dune.

Auntie, as is to be expected, denies that she did anything.

February 4th:

Auntie's friend Dave tells the following story:

"I was at this girl's birthday party, on the beach. She'd just turned twenty-three. She was lying facedown in the sand. She said 'I only have two years left! Then my life will be over and no man will want me!'

"Ever the gentleman, I invited her to the tenth anniversary of my death party."

Oh, for the halcyon days of youth. Dave is now married, with a baby boy and a master's degree. Auntie has been married, been to university, and regularly disposes of matter that would've turned into a baby if she'd had it fertilized. So however incorrectly, Auntie believes she's close enough to having been there, done that, and not wanted it.

February 5th:

Apparently all Auntie really needed this week was a bottle of wine... or perhaps two... but not more than three. I'm... feeling much better now.

Propositions raised for the "writing your name without your hands" Olympic competition. Performance enhancing drugs would be permitted if they allowed you to scribe in patriotic colors. Further discussion of biathlons, such as ski-scribing.

More difficult alphabets would yield greater style points. Like if you chose Cyrillic.

Leave us not get into the equivalent women's competition.

February 6th:

Auntie chose not to follow the path of a Porno Queen many years ago. She was in a bar with the aforementioned Dave. A friend of the owner was plying her with drink that she was giving to Dave. Auntie was bemused. Dave was blotto. Aforementioned friend finally comes over to sit next to Auntie and informs her that she should get implants and pose for Playboy, because "You're pretty enough, but they like them really stacked."

Some years later, Auntie was asked "Do you have titties? I miss titties."

Auntie's date leaned over menacingly and said, "What if she does?"

Samuel Johnson defined a garrett as "the highest room in the house" and a cockloft as "the room over the garrett."