"So I think I'm making progress, Bunni. What do you think?" asks the Doberman as he paints my wall.

"I'm trying to read about how cherries can cure cancer."

"You don't care."

"About you? Of course not."

I'm wading my way through a packet of information, including books espousing alternative cures to everything from ADHD to MS, that although well intentioned is so enraging I now know what it is like to have a conniption (Also see Bill Cosby). There are, for example, Potatoes Not Prozac and Orthomolecular Treatment for Schizophrenia: Megavitamin Supplements and Nurtitional Strategies for Healing and Recovery.


But the book that made me so angry that I wanted to throw up was a book by Dr. Hulda Clark called The Cure for All Diseases. She then went on to pen the Cure for All Cancers in 1990 and The Cure for HIV and AIDS in 1991.

If you don't know what's wrong with these books, I am not going to waste my time explaining it to you. Let's just say I give it the same credence that I give Dr. Weil's Spontaneous Healing,
which is to say I wouldn't bother wiping my ass with this pseudoscience. These books are attractive because they appeal to a Nietszchean idea that if you are sick, it is because of some FAILURE on your part-failure to believe, to fight, to do adequate research. That last one I find particularly insulting.

That is when I am confronted with the attitude that I'm not disabled because I don't look disabled.

I've never thrown up in anger, but the Doberman was pleased to witness me reaching a new level in my rage.

This is my Saturday night.
You know that movie-How to lose a guy in ten days-which if I had been the star would have been retitled how to lose a man in ten minutes-one of those romantic comedies similar to Somebody Like You, which initially after Eric left held great appeal for me because it suggested that even an emotional dyslexic like myself still despite major set backs had hope of finding someone who can put up them.

And five years later not so much.

I developed a theory in 1993-that break ups should be postponed until AFTER major holidays especially birthdays. And this is a theory that I am so attached to that I have suffered quite a bit in the name of supporting it. While I've been stood up on my birthday and dumped on New Year's Day and the day before Thanksgiving-I have stayed with men, sometimes for weeks, in order not to ruin holidays and birthdays.

And for anyone who thinks that isn't a sacrifice-imagine staying with a guy for three weeks-a guy I no longer loved-a guy who for two years couldn't tell me he loved me and couldn't admit that we were in a long term relationship all while I was living out of my backpack during graduate school-just because his birthday was coming up and he was going through a hard time. And even though you didn't want to touch him or hold his hand or even fucking sleep with him, you do in order to protect his feelings.

And so, yet again, not only do I find myself facing the gauntlet of holidays not to commit suicide by-christmas, new year's eve, and valentine's day, but also my birthday-sans a man.

I have 14 days.

If you know of any men who would up for it, please send an email subject line "Bunni's Birthday Boy."

(The big post is coming-I swear it.)
I have a hell of a post I'm workin' on. Seriously. It has everything-cults, sex, betrayal, international intrigue, torture, love, revenge...well I don't have any sword fighting, but you could always watch the Princess Bride after reading it and have the whole experience.

I digress.

But such posts take time people. And I'm exhausted after this week. (You'll understand why after the post.)

But I leave you with the news that there is in NYC actually a Dr. Quackenbush. I should know since I walked by his office a few days ago/

I can only hope he isn't a gynecologist.

Is this thing on?
I have finally made some of those t-shirts I'm always talking about. So now you can buy them and make the cat wear them because, well, it might not be safe to wear some of these out of the house. Incidentally, although I designed these shirts-I haven't bought any of them for myself-hint hint.


Totally exhausted, anything I might blog would be whiny dperessive self indulgent ridiculousness. Have to go home and grade like a rat bastard. But this weekend I was able to introduce Mere Lapin to the show Six Feet Under. My favorite character was, predictably, Claire who offered this piece of optimism while her character was in high school:

Isn't it reassuring that being miserable isn't as bad as being a moron?