I'm just perusing the spreadingsantorum site, and it's occasionally hysterical.

My favorite entry so far, in response to a girl who enjoys anal sex and fears the word may scare off the skittish boys:

As I've emphasized again and again, SC, santorum is only sometimes the byproduct of anal sex. For the record: Anal sex doesn't necessarily have to result in "a visit from the senator," a handy euphemism that's already in circulation. Anyone who encounters santorum every time he/she has anal sex needs to get a little more fiber in his/her diet, as well as spending a little more time in the can, pre-buttfuckin'.

This week's Savage Love is just hysterical.

Entirely devoted to Santorum, "That frothy mix of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex."

My favorite reader anecdote (from the Savage column):

It includes about two dozen links to spreadingsantorum.com the site devoted to spreading the word about this great new word. Looking forward to seeing it in the Oxford English Dictionary.

. . . in my little corner of the world.

And I just relearned an old, old lesson I learned about myself long ago:

I don't mind working long hours. I don't mind staying at work till 10 or 1 or 4:30 a.m., plowing through whatever needs to be tackled and accomplishing it. I've done all three of those in the last few weeks, and the really late ones make me groggy the next day, but no big deal. In fact, I get a great feeling of accomplishment from it, assuming I have accomplished something, which is nearly always the case. But . . .

 But the weekends, I really need some sort of break. Especially when I've just pulled a longass night or two. But even if I haven't. I just need a break from it.

I can also do other work all weekend. I can pay my bills, work out home financial stuff, write if I've been consulting, consult if I've been writing . . . Just not the same dredging through the muck I've been dredging through all week.

But I think also being alone in the suburbs with no one to see or talk to in person and nothing to do but maybe work out and watch horrible late-night/weekend TV makes it all the worse. Especially when I never had time to work out. Bleak, bleak, bleak.

Then everything that happened stuck in my craw and pissed me off. My boss wasn't hassling much at all really, just a bit, but it was enough to infuriate me when I was already slogging through their crap while they were out having fun. I never did like getting left out.

And it doesn't help that the rest of my life is still all so up in the air.

At least I've figured out one thing. Moving here to the Chicago suburbs full time would just be suicide. What on earth was I thinking. I still didn't even get to telling you about that possibility, but just as well, cause now it's off the table.