Pandora's Amphora

Been kind of a bitch this week. It is the kind of liberating experience that would make for a very uplifting public service announcement. "Be a dear, give 'em a sneer!" Or something?

I never call my girlfriend on being hormonal, even when I have just licked blood from her vagina. Worst case scenario, when she'll apologize to me for going to the Angry Cry Nebula, I'll just say "I understand." But now she feels quite at liberty to blame my feelings on hormones. It's like, oh, double standard, hon, but you do not know the hell you have earned. I think I may have demolished my high ground halfway through that last sentence, but fuck. Do you know how much it sucks to finally have your feelings back and then have your partner explain to you why they're irrelevant? (She can read this or not. Whatever.)

Apparently, Pandora's whole curious little kitten act? Yeah it, was with a jug, not a box. (Side note: mentioning the Curious Little Kitten totally makes me want to cry. I know!) Which kinda makes the whole metaphor different for me. Like, a box? Of course you're going to open it. You've got incentive! Boxes are what Christmas presents and mail-order dildos come in! And, for that reason, a box is more verboten than a jug. I wouldn't keep anything in a jug which I would mind being infested by frogs. Maybe that's why they kept hope in there? My 7th grade teacher, the incomparable Mark Klein, always told us that hope was left because it was the greatest evil of all. I like that.

I ordered some black lipstick on Amazon. The question before me: cyber goth or goth hippie? Either is exciting.