1. As a child my mother thought keeping my very curly red hair cut short was “cute”. I looked liked Annie until around the age of 12 when I realized the teasing would ease up if this resemblance wasn’t there. After a brief hiatus from being teased constantly I discovered the boys had learned a few new things and started calling out “fire crotch” and “does the carpet match the drapes…..none of those assholes would ever find out!

One of the reasons I can’t tell you who I am is because of a very hush-hush fact of my life: I am Britney Spears’ chair for her dissertation committee. Her dissertation is called “Academic Circus” and is a searing pop-culturally based analysis of life in academia.

As such, she has begun with her own album, “Circus,” which she admits was always a cheeky entry into her own feelings of being an academic.

But academia doesn’t make a #1 hit–and, with all of her graduate-student appropriate school debt, she needs the fucking money.

I’m going to share with you chapter one, titled: My “Circus,” Moral Dissonance, and Psychic Trauma in the Public Sphere

As my father would say, this movie had absolutely no redeeming social value. If the chick’s gonna spend like a fiend, maybe she should buy some outfits that don’t look like two Carrie Bradshaw ensembles layered one on top of the other. Also, horrible script, terribly developed romance, and she somehow became a media darling after two successful articles. (And I’m pretty sure she never wrote any others.)

I give it two AmExes down.

(so, she doesn’t get nude in this? Ed.)

ChillbearLatrigue is going to do them again this weekend.  He did such a good job last time, and I’ll be internetless from tonight until late, late Sunday (I’ll be in Utah), so I’ve enlisted him to cover for me.

Also, due to my upcoming school schedule, my time already being stretched much too thin, Chillbear and I will start alternating weekends on The Smokies.  I think it will be good to get this varying perspective on the awards, but really I’m just stoked someone was willing to step up when I knew I was going to have to step back a bit.  Thank you Chill, you’re doing me a great service.

Have a good weekend, fuckers!

Fourteen years ago, we all lived together in a little cream- colored house, with a monkey swing hanging from the maple tree in  the backyard.  Fourteen years ago, I was 35-years-old and my husband  was 39. We had a 5-year-old daughter, and two sons, ages 9 and 11. Fourteen years ago, we had worries;  I just don’t  remember what they were, or why they mattered.

One summer day, fourteen years ago, my husband came home from work early, sat down in our cheery little breakfast nook,  and calmly stated, “The doctor says it’s Parkinson’s Disease.”  Fourteen years ago, I knew one person with PD – an aged man with a tremor. Fourteen years ago, my Pollyanna-self told my husband no matter what the future brings, we will handle it together.

Fourteen years ago, I didn’t know much.

As roughly 71% of you already know, I’m a cat person. No, I don’t change into a cat like Nastassja Kinski in the awful re-make of the Tourneur classic – well, not usually. I have no real underlying need to become a kitty. I’ve already got three of them, and although I enjoy mimicking their sleep patterns and love them dearly, that’s where the fascination ends. No. I’d rather be a dog. Your dog. Especially if you bought me a Snuggie.

Yes. A Snuggie. For dogs. There’s not really much else to say about it.

I imagined our tryst as being filled with fucking, cigarettes and quick kisses on the cheek as he left to go home to his faithful “real” girlfriend. And its true there was a lot of sex. Mostly at my place, but we occasionally met at his apartment too. There was something so hot about the fact that at any moment his girlfriend could come home early and catch us fucking on those beige 400 count sheets that she made their bed with.

In the beginning I was so high on the adrenaline that I could have flown.

Given the tone here for the last day or two as well as the horniness of the editor and everyone else on this site, I give you this:

Hello Possible Donaters and Donatees! Do you dream? Do you day-dream like me? About, you know, The Usual Things – having a “Slut Army” of well-paid, well-dressed and highly-intelligent women at your beck and call who’ll help me take over the world and run it a little better while we constantly engage in the type of sexual practices that would raise eyebrows in even the most liberal areas of Amsterdam? Yes – I haz a dream!

1. People who tell me to “relax” or “chill out.” There is literally nothing else on this Earth that makes me angrier. Has saying that ever helped anyone to relax or chill out, ever?

2. People who engage me in small talk unnecessarily. Sadly, I stopped going on G-Chat during the hours one of my best friends is in the office is on, because the instant I sign on I know I will see “Hey there! What’s up? How’s work? How was your weekend?”

Never has a motion picture about people with extraordinary psychic abilities been so supernaturally boring. I switched it off before the third act. Which, for all I know, contains all the exciting bits missing from the previous two. But I doubt it.

1. I went through a bit of heartbreak or something of the like recently. Still trying to convince myself things’ll be better and will end up alright. Keep trying to convince myself “the best is yet to come.”

2. The first boy I ever had sober sex with is also the only boy I’ve ever been in love with. I took his virginity. I miss him.

These two “Swedes” were obviously from Miami. I’m pretty sure they just said they were from Sweden to protect their identity.

(Yes – it’s a new type of column here at Playboy Wordsmoker. Quick Puffs are little things that have caught your attention on the web and that you’d like to share with others. Just send a linkie and a sentence or two to the usual address and Your Horny Editor will do the rest)

Pooping in public is a rather delicate affair; an affair which depends entirely upon your fellow bathroomers. You have to ask yourself: Do I know them? Are they in the stall directly next to me, or a few away? Should I answer my cell phone while I’m pooping?

But pooping at work is an entirely different experience. I mean, you know these people. And, even more troubling, they know you and which shoes you wore to work that day.