Cascading relief and utter blurting amusement set in when I delved deeper to find where this perp was coming from. Homie MSN searched for "enema photos", and I was number Ninety Two on the list. Zero clue what ccea is acronymed for, but some silly government perv or stalwart watchdog, is tracking down the best sites in enema heaven.

To clarify, I have never discussed the photographic wonder that enemas are. I have snickered at a pic called "coco puffs" once or twice. Still the terms enema and photo were used seperately in an entry. One way back when I asked women why it's too laborious to investigate the toilet seat situation before planting their bare ass blindly in the dark on a potential water lapping horror. I suggested that someone, even while leaving the seat down, might have left a plunger in the bowl. Rudely giving themselves a wood enema.

By the way, please refrain from defending this feminism stance. Trust me, Ma and baby sis shrieked enough about it back in the day where it's an automatic response for me to put the seat down. I follow that rule. Extremely begrudgingly though, as a matter of common sense I believe anyone should at least glance at the fully lit pooper before offering it your unprotected heiny.

SPANKY FREEDOM DAY ONE: Ah the life of Riley. Not that stank stain Bill O'Reilly who does op ed vomit on Fox. He shouldn't even have a life, in my imaginary spankverse anyway.

Freedom is not the instant cure for insomnia. Fell on the bed around three, woke around seven. Distracted my fuddled anger with starting off the day yanking the weasel. Half hour later I was breathing hard, sweating hard and cumming hard. My eyes and my mind not cooperating with each other, dizzily wonder if I can pass out again since my orgasm forced the muscles into tingly relaxation. Nope.

I like unclocked showers. No slave responsibility to head to, I can devote sincere appreciation towards the controlled hot waterfall. Fluid silk massage. This is where I meditate. Erase the cluttered blackboards of my brain.

Initial movie pick rethought. Local ponder mapping would suggest a theater closer to the bank most maxing of my pedestrian activity. So, I decide to see Lost In Translation on Third Avenue, instead of trekking over to Houston for the bomb diggity Sunshine Theater after dropping the rent in the sublet account.

Bill Murray is absolutely career affirming in his role. Fantastic film I thought. Plus being able to see Scarlett Johansson's yummy butt in cotton undies is worth it. I hope she keeps her healthy body, and doesn't begin the waif Hollywood shit that has spoiled many. Like my fair Christina Ricci, she's still hot, but damn I want her butternut curves to make a comeback. Anyway, the movie is great and I suggest it to all. Even if you are a passive fan of Bill Murray you will be delighted with this one. Go see it now!

Sigh. No experience can be crank free. Halfway through the flick the lady two seats behind me gets the munchie urges, to and fros back with a bucket of popcorn. Popcorn should be obliterated permenantly from the American cinematic experience. Nothing like someone chewing their cud like a cow behind your ears, kernel crackles echoing off their cheeks. Tosses all kinds of problems on my ability to maintain the suspension of disbelief.

Really is completely undifficult to sit still for two hours as far as I'm concerned. Fart. Unfortunately, due to childhood eustachian woes, or possibly simply my genetic hearing dice roll, I cannot filter noises out. It is impossible for me to carry on a discussion if the music is loud. And, the slightest whisper scratches my cochlea when concentrating on quiet culture. Builds up a stabbing rage on every nerve.

The bottom line is, one day someone, who doesn't finish the salty snacks during the previews, is gonna have a square fake butter slathered carton dangling from their anus after I snap.

Casually walking around to pick a dining spot. Knew Three Of Cups prolly wouldn't be open yet, and I was correct. On the way there down First Avenue, I saw a help wanted sign in a bakery window. Been in that place twice, very geared toward the gen x hipster crowd. Didn't even break stride as I shoo'ed away thoughts of applying. Would have to be offering twenty dollars an hour, at least, just to make it better than unemployment. Who knows, no harm in asking, might stop by and inquire what the deal is.

After enjoying my early Autumn hood air, I settle at 7A. As obvious as it might be, I do enjoy my single status. I like eating by myself. Going to the movies by myself. Cracks me up the shy looks people feed singles. I can see the thought bubble, "Oh that unfortunate soul, no one will eat with him" or "loser, what kind of misfit goes to a restaurant alone". All the more for me I say. Finish my avocado tuna melt sammy and bounce.

Twist a fat lantern. Spark. Spend the evening giggling at surfed glowbox, and many trips to the shrine of boner. Broadband naughty is a wonderful innovation. Hurt myself slightly and felt tender after the fifth go round.

Passed out early. Great snuggly! Actually was honored with a well rested night of cloud drifting. Head was free of clogs after a genuine GOOD NIGHT SLEEP! Holy gourd. Initiated a most wummerful day chilluns. Woof. I'll let ya know about today next time.