Glory, glory hellolujah you delightful bunch of holy rollers out there. I am at long last confident that you have suffered withdrawal for long enough and that you have missed me sufficiently. You will hopefully forgive my lack of updates during this month, the muse was on vacation. Still is, really. But I thought I'd try my hand at this writing business without her. Muse schmooze, who needs 'em anyway?

Last Sunday saw my youth draw to a close in a most dramatic fashion when I irreversably (I tried) turned 22 years old. It has to be said, I find 22 to be quite haggardly next to my former youthful blossom age of 21. But far scarier is the fact that I have 359 days until I turn 23. As we all know, 23 is the age where people begin to require bedpans and 2" thick layers of anti-wrinkle cream (to no avail). I have vowed to photograph myself every day of the year this year, to remember what I used to look like before I started having to tuck my double chin into my underwear and my face began to look like a topographical map of Uruguay. Yay. I love birthdays. For those of you who haven't sent me a present yet, I suggest you get to it immediately. Next year I might be too senile to appreciate them.

The mormons here in Keflavik bought me a birthday present. From what I can tell, it's a huge framed picture of a young Kenny Rogers in a bathrobe stepping out of a cave in the early morning sun. Under the picture it reads "He Lives". Yes, that's what I thought he did. I think that was my favorite birthday present of the year though, coz it was so unexpected. (So far, guys! So far! Don't let that discourage you in your quest to buy me lavish gifts) Also it gave me the similarly unexpected chance to lasciviously make out with Elder Cattermole's neck in a most erotic fashion. I'm sure it came as quite the shock to him as well. Ahh well. We all have to learn to deal with sex offenders at some point in our adult lives, I suppose. To his credit, he took it like a man. Or a man-esque sort of being anyway.

Hmm, I vaguely recollect there being some mention of a "sausage hunt" here last time I wrote. As was to be expected, I procrastinated that mission away. In the spirit of sportsmanship I did take some absolutely ridiculous steps towards acheiving my goal in the beginning, but I ended up sabotaging myself kind of and then giving up and the whole deal frankly is hardly worth mentioning. Much like most of my quests. I think this is a form of brain damage that I have, a non-acheiving gene embedded in my DNA. Around what time do you think science will be offering DNA plastic surgery? Wouldn't that be fantastic? Why change your boobs when you can change your entire genetic structure? They could remove all kinds of crappy, annoying characteristics you've inherited from your parents such as being overbearing, inconsiderate and controlling and replace it with supreme intelligence, undying motivation and the grace of a gazelle in heels. They could just yank the unwanted bodyhair gene, the drooling on the pillow gene, the slightly lopsided breasts gene... Wouldn't that be outstanding? I'd play it smart, too. Everyone would have this surgery, you see. Everyone would be perfect. Except for me. I'd ignore the surgery and go hide in a cave with the rest of the ogres for a couple of years and by the time I'd come out, everyone would be perfect and perfection would be boring and undesirable. What better position to be in at that point than being the only obese, buck toothed, ratty haired, unmotivated, uneducated, IQ-equals-shoesize, cult member on the planet? I'd never have to change a thing about me, but still I'd be the star. That's really what I figure needs to happen. I'll never be able to transform myself so dramatically that I'll be the hottest chick around. That won't happen and I've resigned myself to that fact. But maybe, JUST MAYBE... the world can sink to some horrible level to where everyone is worse off than me. I think that is far more attainable. Onwards with genetic research, I say!! It's my only hope!!!

And thus spoke Zara Þustra.