children have a passion for gambling too.

I guess I'm more glad about this than I initially realized.

Been thinking alot about the nature of "being myself" and the bullshit that tends to flow from these contemplations. Despite the risk of being rantish, I've thought about the following:

- Why aren't breast implants considered mutilation by some Leftish-types who cry out against genital mutilation in Africa? Breast implants=self-esteem?? Um...

- Why is not shaving my legs so threatening? In the grand scheme of things, does my adverse reaction toward nicked knees really mean anything? Doubtful.

- Why is it that "being happy with one's body" usually has to translate into exposure of hip bones and saturation of the color pink? Why can't it be realized that sometimes [God forbid!] jeans are practical for the avoidance of skeeter bites and mulch burn? Tits have their purpose, and I utilize them as I please. Sometimes, that means that others are not graced with their humble graces. Other times mean boobie parade. How selfish.

My treatment of self does not have to turn into a political agenda. My shins are not aligned to the femi-whatzit party U.S.A.

If beauty is pain, then give me a tat of Tony Millionaire's Drinky Crow wearing a Buster Keaton hat. The chemical burns can wait.

In other news, are free societies really really peaceful, Bushie-poo? Discuss.