So a moment of reverence, please, for my very first journal entry in the seven years of maintaining my blog, to be entirely written and posted from my Palm while drunk and high in the middle of the night. Fuckin' Bettie*! That's my dominatrix lover from last summer, as longtime readers will remember, with whom I had a rather odd and sexual relationship with last year, back when she was single. (Her BDSM stuff was strictly day-job; the actual sex she and I had was the normal sloppy, kinda drunk, really high, two in the morning meet up after we've been out at the bars kinda stuff.) And I call her Bettie, of course, because she looks like a 25-year-old, slightly thinner Bettie Page (grrowwll), which should really give you the last clue you need to understand why I was meeting up with her semi-regularly last summer and fucking the shit out of her, when she was drunk and high and looking for someone with a big ol' dick to come over in the middle of the night and stick it in her.

Bettie also happens to be the founder of this funny little postmodern club here called the Mud Queens of Chicago - youngish, SuicideGirl-looking punk-rock chicks who get together regularly and actually mud-wrestle, to the delight and amusement of a paying audience, with live punk bands playing in the background and the whole deal. And back when she started this last year, I happened to not only be fucking her but yet another of the mud-wrestlers as well (who both knew about each other, and actually were both interested in having a threeway with me, although I could never goddamn get the two of them in the same room with each other, which should come as a surprise to no one), so needless to say I was the hotshit instant hipster at the mud-wrestling events last summer. But now I'm not sleeping with either of them, so I'm not hotshit anymore. And tonight wasn't an actual wrestling event anyway, but instead a social event for the group, to catch up on each other's lives and recruit new ladies for the next round of bouts. (Seriously, Bettie mentioned like six times tonight that I should mention something at my journal - so if you're in Chicago, and you're a cool kinda cute and nerdy punk-rock girl, and you've always been intrigued by the idea of donning a bikini and jumping in the mud with another punk-rock girl, with all the proceeds going to a battered-women's shelter here in the city, drop me a line. Seriously.)

I ended up having a really delightful conversation with a woman named Jordi (that's her on the left, unknown hot punk-rock mud-wrestler on the right), 23 and just that afternoon fired from her first-ever post-college job. She had been at the bar since six that night, crying in her Jack and Cokes, and...well, really trashed, frankly, and hilarious in that "I don't care that I'm fired - oh, no, wait, I'm upset very deeply by it, in fact" kind of way that 23-year-olds get.

And I hung around and drank and smoked with all the ladies, but fuck man - they've all got boyfriends right now, and the whole damn group is so damn hot, all collectively, and you can't help but to sit there and think about all these hot bitter girls you're around that night and how they're all going home later to get good and fucked by their boyfriends, and not you. So I had to finally get the fuck out of there around 10:30. And now here I am, writing the story out for you. And why again did I think it was a good idea for me to be able to update this journal in real time from my cellphone at home in the middle of the night?