a thousand tiny satans.

i know it seems like it would go without saying, but i was explaining to my girlfriend this weekend that while i am made out of flesh and bone, which is made of fats and fibers and proteins, which are made of molecules which are made of atoms which are made of subatomic particles which some think may consist of infinitely small vibrating strings...she is made of a thousand tiny satans. she, being evil, took this quite personally. but it wasn't intended to be a personal attack. it was more an attempt to truly explain (in terms that a liberated, educated woman could understand) the difference between men and women. her base substance is sin. my base substance is universal truth. is it fair? probably not. but that's life. on the bright side, if a woman should succeed in manufacturing a baby, there is only a fifty percent chance that the tiny satans will be inherited. thank you, meiosis.

the saga continues. my strange cousin, between attemps at expelling body-thetans, is still communicating with me. on friday night, while i was in the movie theater (michael clayton--go see it), she called me three times. first from her phone, then from an unlisted number. eventually i answered, and she was calling to ask why i hadn't responded to her email (see previous post) and to make sure that she had the right "email number." at this point, a few things became clear to me:

1. she is not human.
2. she lives in a space cavern.
3. she sits indian-style in her space cavern all day, eating eucalyptus and reading my mind.
4. she sometimes inhabits my mind and makes me do shameful things.
5. she now goes by her space name which humans can't pronounce because they only have one throat.

i'm probably not going to survive her interrogations much longer. they will probably sick blackwater on me when i refuse to admit that each discontinuity in days of thunder was "intentional and comedic." i hear it all starts when beck's voicemail starts leaving messages on your voicemail. then you wake up on freewinds with a can of moxie where your prostate used to be, listening to jimmy buffett and being tickle-tortured until you admit that, technically, the story of xenu cannot be disproven. i'll be dead before you can count to ot-iii.