I've had too much to drink. We might as well get that out of the way. Editors, do what you must. I'm going to do what I must, which is to write this. Okay, everybody, live and let live. I'll pour myself some more Chambord, and continue.

Ohh, it's cool how I still can code in HTML, at least a little, in this state. I am such a goddamn nerd. More on that later.

E2 has been my sounding board for years. Through the time when my best friend died, my sorta-kinda-if-it-had-been-a-legal-arrangement-to-begin-with-father-in-law died, through the worst of my girlfriend's alcoholism, etc. etc. For months now, all I've posted is Al-Anon musings and assorted math teacher stuff. This is another part of me talking. I'm close to level 6, very close to the I-get-my-own-picture-level, but I'm certainly not noding for numbers. I've been around long enough to remember the slogan "Earn your bullshit", but I really don't give a damn about levels any more. E2 is just a nice place to vent in the middle of the night.

So. I had a friend in high school who taught me to drive on chilly evenings with the heat turned up full blast and the windows rolled down and the radio blaring. Sensory overload, in a good way. It works wonders when you've been feeling too insulated, too safe.

Nothing like stopping at the convenience store on the way home to buy pork rinds when you've got no business driving in the first place. No, sirree. And there's nothing like pork rinds either, for that matter. It always made me feel like I had a little something in common with George Bush, Sr--we both liked the tasty snacks. I don't have anything at all in common with his son, except liking librarians.

I think many of you are too young to know what I'm talking about. I apologize. I'm also going to keep on talking, so take heed or clear out. It's up to you.

My life is good, and safe. I have a good job, my girlfriend has a better job. I don't want for much. Things are smoother than they once were. I'm also on the brink of burnout. Maybe that's how it goes.

Last day of the term. Traditional day of going out with coworkers and drinking too much. One guy whom I'm not at all attracted to, who pseudo-flirts (and has a girlfriend, arriving stateside Sunday) and also drinks Guinness and, if he was to get a tattoo, it would probably be of the Lorax — just like me! — and who I'm slated to go see The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe with tomorrow — well, here's my point. He's no one that anything real is going to happen with. So he's a good candidate.

Right now, I've got a crush on Dan Savage. He's a self-defined pinko-commie- drag-fag-queer-sex columnist who, as it says in Pump Up the Volume, talks hard. Or writes hard, as the case may be. My crush started after reading The Kid, his story of how he and his boyfriend adopted their son, and The Commitment, about their will-we/won't we debate over getting married. My crush actually took hold when I heard his voice, on This American Life. He's smart, he's liberal, he's attracted to skinny, femme-y men. He's got a nice, deep voice. Maybe we're the same person, really, except for the voice. I had crushes on Gilligan and Batman's Robin, and Will Robinson, once upon a time, and these days I'm looking forward to seeing Brokeback Mountain, because I like both of the leads. And the promise of a good story, a something-other-than-run-of-the-mill-love.

We play the The "Mary Ann or Ginger?" Game, my girlfriend and I, and the results are illuminating. I like Corky and she likes Violet, which is as it should be since she is more Corky and I more Violet, but she also chooses Brad Pitt to my Edward Norton, and Charlize Theron to my Sandra Bullock. Johnny Depp trumps just about everyone, except maybe Brendan Fraser in the right role, or Sam Elliott in Road House (her pick). I also like drag queens. Go figure.

I think about other careers I might embark upon, and I think about other futures I might have. I was well past my twelfth birthday before I realized that I might well be a philosophy professor someday, and I might well smoke a pipe and wear a vest, but chances were good I wouldn't have a beard. It's those double X chromosomes of mine, you see. How did it happen that my notions of gender were so fluid? (It's certainly not a product of the house I grew up in...) And then I find myself thinking about what it would like to be a man, not that I'm at all dissatisfied with my womanly existence--I like these boobs of mine--but the same way I consider different careers I might some day explore, I find myself thinking, if I was a guy, I'd like guys.

So, am I just trying to be ornery, oppositional? If I'm a woman who likes women, at least the woman I've been with for the last thirteen years, who despite her hips and hormones and ability to cry at Hallmark commercials reminds me (sometimes, physically) of a teenage boy who will never broaden, deepen into a big scary (unattractive) man, why do I think if I was a guy I'd like guys?

Life is wider than you might think, and not easily explained. And sometimes, despite our best intentions, a good drunken bender seems to be what's called for. It's bloodless, if we're lucky. Dangerous but not disastrous. Flirtation without consummation. Plus a few pork rinds, of course, but only after the more sophisticated fare is dispatched.

Draw your own conclusions, and let me know if you come up with anything good. I'm going to bed, with my six cats. Living the stereotype.

Most of the time.