Mind like a pinball

I'll be all over the place for a minute, if y'all don't mind.

• Song on repeat right now: Blue Buddha by My Life With the Thrill Kill Kult
  How did I miss these guys all this time?
  
  
• I might have been Christmas shopping for children in the family, and I might have accidentally put some extra stuff in the cart, and darn! I have to keep it for myself now.
  
  Hmmmmm, wonder what I could possiby do with this...
  
  
  
  Ages 2+? Should be perfect for me.
  
  
  
  Party pack. Hmmm. We used to call that a gang bang.
  
  Of course, you know I will supply photographs when I have time to get some of this out and mold it to fit my worldview of the day. You might just see turd-shaped Play-Doh, depending on how the week progresses.
  
  
• You know that sensation of creeping, burning shame, of tingling embarassment, that feeling that happens when you walk up to the adult bookstore counter with the packet of hardcore magazines? The magazines that come three in a pack, shrinkwrapped, all glossy pages and only perfunctory text, and no matter which two subjects you buy on the outside, it could be bondage, gumjobs, horsey love, or lesbo Mennonites, the magazine you can't see in the middle will always be about butt sex? Yeah, those.
  
  Well, I had that very sensation several days ago, but unfortunately for this story, I was not in the porn shop - I don't even know what one of those places looks like on the inside, ahem. Oops, dodge that lightning!
  
  But I was in Walgreens, and the magazine I was purchasing wasn't even particularly racy. No, it was way worse than that. In my sweaty hand, I clutched a copy of the January issue of Glamour magazine. Maybe that doesn't sound so bad to you, but think about it from the clerk's point of view, this clerk that sees me nearly every day, since I don't have my shit together enough to get everything I need in one trip. Imagine what your face would look like if you saw Mother Theresa in a sequined thong and matching bra with cups in the shape of clutching hands - that was the expression on the clerk's face as I shook the magazine from my clammy grip onto the counter.
  
  I wanted to shout out: "I have no fashion illusions! I'm buying this for the 'Women Who Blog' article, because I'm a Dooce fan."
  I wanted to protest: "Maybe there's more to me than you know, oh holiday-smocked judger of perpetually disheveled customers buying magazines they may or may not understand."
  I wanted to stammer: "It's for my, ah, mom."
  
  Ultimately, I said nothing, paid my cash, and left with my shameful purchase.
  
  In retrospect, I probably should've bought it at that same dark little shop where I buy my soap opera magazines and morphine. I can count on their discretion.