Hey kittens! Apologize for another no-post Monday. Had a rather overstimulating weekend, then my office went ka-boom! this morning.

I am: listening to my “Walkin’ on Sunshine” Pandora station and dreaming of sick days with chamomile tea and almost definitely probably not going to end up crying under my desk later.

I am not: leaving you entirely in the lurch, though. Regular NTKOG going up tomorrow; until then check out my article on Untemplater: Stop Polishing and Start Publishing Already.

And, hey, got a short story or essay languishing in your My Documents folder? For extra credit, afterwards, log onto Duotrope and spend twenty minutes getting that puppy published.

Although I haven’t had a chance to post about it yet, I’ve been thinking seriously about fiction-writing lately, because apparently girl cannot live off of blog entries alone. In that vein, and with pressure on to write a top-shelf fiction story for my MFA application portfolio, I’ve declared October my month of fiction.

Every day in October, I’m writing a little bit of fiction. A short story, a creative essay, a hot burst of flash fiction scribbled on the back of a grocery store receipt. I know some of my awesome readers are also aspiring writers, so just mentioning that project, with a promise of more updates later.

In the meantime, check out my Untemplater article, and have a better Monday than I am!

This weekend, I was — uh, sexually harassed? Er, molested? Whatever, I got felt up by a convenience store clerk and I tried to brush it off, but it absolutely sucked, so I drank too much wine afterwards, then woke up early to write this piece about it for Life As A Human. And now I’m never going to talk about it again. Good day! Still, if you want the story, check out: Politely Powerless: When Self-Defense Fails.

Apologize for the lack of proper post yesterday — managed to catch the very last summer cold of the season — but will be back tomorrow in proper form, regardless of creepy convenience store owners and epic, brutal nasal congestion.

Working my ass off through a liberal arts education, I spent four blissful years ignoring the harsh realities awaiting girls who prefer words to people, once they make the fatal mistake of leaving the Ivory Tower. Surely, I reasoned, as I am possible, there is a life out there possible for me.

Nothing fancy, you know. Just lazy literary days in the grass, sparkling nights trading bon mots at impromptu salons, life blossoming before me in an endless renaissance of intellectual wonder. Is that too much to ask?!

Apparently it isn’t. Despite the occasional set-backs and aggravations, it seems to me that through some miracle, I am living the life I’ve always dreamed, right here, right now.

Moments in which I remember I’m living in the best of all possible worlds:

• Adding items twice as fast as I can check them off to the mile-long to-do list in my beat-up Moleskine.
• Pacing the path in front of the Boston Public Library at 9am on a Saturday, waiting for them to open so I can stay until the third volley of no-seriously-the-library-is-closing announcements eight hours later.
• Getting home from a day lying in the Common with my laptop and a brilliant book, picking dead grass out of my shirt, counting my bug bites, and only hoping the sun lasts longer tomorrow.
• Locking the door to the office I loathe after a full day and waking as though from an unpleasant dream to the beginning of my real work.
• Late night, Back Bay sidewalk, watching girls with legs longer than my attention span totter on the arms of Armani-clad investment bankers, sparking out to drain bottles of Dom while I eat dinner out of the 7-eleven again because I’m too busy and too broke to even consider wrestling silverware instead of laptop keys.
• Contemplating my life next year, settling into an MFA program in some awful, dusty Southern town — friendless, again; alone — and wanting it so badly that my blood singes the insides of my arteries.
• Grinning like a goddamn idiot as I write this. Because twenty years from now, these are the days I’m going to remember as my very best.

There are a lot of things I don’t have right now. A killer social life, a clean apartment, the liquid assets to do laundry more than twice a month — whatever. If you’re only given one big gift in life, I’d reckon a sense of purpose is a pretty stellar one. I am as blessed as I am thankful.

And this concludes today’s Fired-Up Friday. Have a gorgeous weekend, kittens. I hope you spend it making your dreams come true.

Kittens! It’s been exactly a week since I’ve posted here, and I’ve been climbing the walls. So much for my life of leisure, eh? What I’ve done while I wasn’t updating here:

1. Drank an awful lot of gin, in various milieux. Of course.
2. Hung out at my desk, dancing to this hilarious mock-techno song on perma-repeat — without ever watching its horrifying music video in full.
3. Read more pages than you’d think possible of Koopa Troopa fanfic.
4. Emailed The Ex the entire Dinosaur Comics archives, one annotated link at a time.
5. Waxed angsty on Secret Society of List Addicts about pre-pubescent crushes for whom I’m still carrying a serious torch.
6. Wrote myself love notes from Alec Baldwin, all featuring the phrase “lush rainforest of chest hair”.
7. Figured out what I’m doing with this blog.

Wait a minute! The last one is … sort of relevant? Let’s go with that.

It can’t surprise you to hear that this blog is one of the best decisions I’ve made in my erstwhile rather dishwater life, and, thus, it is my stated intention to continue it. So here’s the deal.

I am: committed to living a life filled with non-stop writing, self-improvement, and wildly public acts of utter humiliation.

I am not: quite insane enough to ever volunteer to do it five times a week again. Hey, a girl’s got to fit grad school applications into her life somehow, right?

Thus, my guarantee to you: between August 23, 2010 and August 23, 2011, I hereby commit to performing 100 more NTKOGs. Yes, one hundred mo-friggin’ more uncharacteristic acts of personal growth, social science, and more-than-moderate mortification. Awkwardness is my gift; sharing it with the world, my passion.

Starting Monday, September 6, the blog returns to regular-update status. Look forward to NTKOGs on Mondays and Wednesdays, and as-yet-undisclosed Fun Times Fridays.

Here’s to another year, baby. Let’s keep making magic.

NTKOG #250: The kind of bold, optimistic adventurer who — fortified by a year full of uncharacteristic experiences — leaves her fate for a day entirely in the hands of her beloved blog readers.

I am: amazed and thrilled to announce this is the last official day of my project year.

I am not: afraid of anything anymore. Thank you, guys. Thank you.

The Scene: All over my fair adopted city, my love for which courses through me with the intensity of a volcano, yet the tenderness of a hiccuping kitten. For the last day of this strange, amazing project, decided to chance fate and let my truly beloved readers choose my adventures. And, dudes, you took the task seriously.

Adventure #1: “Write haikus! About things that you do today. Especially trivial things.” (from @xoxonatalie on twitter)

Perfect! I may have just the slightest tendency to get lost in verbal fireworks (nooooooo, really?!) slash lengthy descriptions of passers-by’s messed-up teeth, so let us approach this Choose My Adventure Day via haiku-cap.

Choose My Adventure:
it seems you conspired for my
ultimate delight

Adventure #2: “Swing on the swing set in Ringer Park in Allston. (If there still is a swing set and/or a Ringer Park).” (from commenter Mominlaw, who went on an early date with her husband there and who, ps, I hope is having a lovely birthday!)

Packed up and walked to Ringer Park in the drizzle, and was delighted to find I had the place more or less to myself! Then was even more delighted to get on a swingset and remember just how friggin’ fun that is! Uh, someone remind me why I haven’t done that in sixteen years?!

Dude, what is a swing? / Lever? Pulley? A machine? / Frig it, I'm swinging.

Adventure #3: “I would say joining kids’ games. Cartwheels anywhere there’s a spot of grass, hopscotch anywhere there’s chalk and sidewalk.” (from @PepperJess on twitter)

You don’t want to see an oaf of my caliber attempt a cartwheel (hint: destruction imminent), but — muddy grass and cute skirt be damned — still swing-dizzy, I found a hill on the playground and rolled right the way down. Afterwards, took chalk to asphalt and learned: 1) why professional hopscotch players don’t carry heavy messenger bags; 2) that my feet have apparently grown considerably since the last time I played.

Not great cardio / but it's still good for the heart. / (Is that too cheesy?)

Afterwards, a young couple strolled up to the playground, obviously on a date, and watched me attempting to make the perilous third-square hop. “Wanna play?” I asked them, then handed them each a stick of chalk. When I left, a few minutes later, he was drawing her portrait on the asphalt and I was meltier than the rainy chalk.

Adventure #4: “locate the toy that you loved most as a child/feel some attachment to and play in a park” (from Kelsey)

Although I’m a sucker for Slinkies, Play Doh and Creepy Crawlers, as a kid I was most obsessed with arts & crafts, and one item in particular:

Sammy D. Sapling / always keeps both his eyes peeled / seeking hot dryads

Swings, hopscotch, tree eyes.
Whoa, did I just take myself
on the perfect date?

Adventure #5: “What if you paid the bus or T-fare for a random person?” (from commenter Jessica)

Harmonica dude
with the sign by the bus stop,
stop playing and ride.

Adventure #6: “Stop at an animal shelter and play with the dogs or cats that looks like they need attention the most (usually the old guys)” (from commenter Erin)

Couldn’t find a local shelter I could public transit to on time, but stopped by a local pet store as they were packing up all of the weekly rescue kittens, and complimented a dignified former feral tabby on his glossy coat.

Fistbumps for kittens!
Love you temporarily;
hope you find a home.

Adventure #7:  ”i challenge you to buy and eat one cash register candy you wouldn’t ordinarily eat” (by @whowantssoup via twitter)

Adventure #8: “Please lie down on a busy sidewalk for a couple of minutes, and if anyone asks, tell them that you’re just looking up at the sky…” (from SapioSlut [warning: link nsfw])

Adventure #9: “take [your] reading outside to an iconic plant in your neighbourhood (Canadian sp) and, for good measure, bring some cold black tea to pour on its roots.” (from Naomi)

Adventure #10: “Bike to the Arnold Arboretum, find a secluded patch of grass and share a bottle of wine with yourself and Thoreau.” (from Neal Simpson)

Is it just me, or do these combine into one delightfully eccentric picnic? I had forty-five minutes to kill before free late admission to the Museum of Fine Arts, so I stopped by a local diner for a to-go Earl Grey, then spread a fleece blanket on the wet sidewalk and gazed at the grey-wooly sky while tourists hopped over me in confusion. Occasionally as I looked up, they would peer down anxiously and, for a moment, we would lock eyes. I smiled up warmly; they twitched away and kept hurrying on.

After ten minutes, I really gave them something to edge away from, when moved onto the lawn, nuzzled my face in the grass and read it excerpts from Walden while sneaking sips from a tiny bottle of Merlot. Maybe it was just the wine, or the luxury of getting soaked on a rainy day, but I was Thoreau-ly entertained. (Oh man. Oh man. That was awful.)

Rain came in buckets / Dude asked what I was doing / "Reading, sir. And you?"

After I fed the grass some of my cooled tea, headed into the Museum of Fine Arts for late afternoon admission:

Adventure #11: “should be lots of art students @ the mfa today. Could pay one $1 for a 1-minute sketch?” (from @kharied on twitter)

He captured my smirk / my rosy cheeks, crooked nose / and my lack of limbs

Adventure #12: “Give a high-five to all the cyclists you can.” (from @teeheehee on Twitter)

Good day, fair cyclist!
Kudos on braving the rain!
Knock and/or lock it.

Adventure #13: “Tell three strangers you like their outfit/hair. Yay for compliments!” (from Scarlet)

Well what a cute skirt!
Where did you get that necklace?
Those shoes are divine.

Adventure #14: “get a mimosa! Yum!” (from @scarls17 on twitter)

Adventure #15: “challenge a random dude or dudes to a game of buckhunter at a bar.” (from ohhayitskk)

Adventure #16: “I want you 2 walk up to the next hot guy you see hug him, tell him you love him and then walk away, preferably into a crowd.” (from @katiedeniselee on twitter)

Ducked into a sports bar near where I work to pick up an unfashionably late-in-the-day mimosa (yummy!) and stake out the console game situation. Although they didn’t have buckhunter, they did feature a game whereby you — and I’m so glad I live in a world where this exists — emulate throwing beanbags with a roller control.

Found a trio of dudes who had obviously been drinking since the beginning of the Sox game, and singled one out. His slight squiffiness was absolutely key to this mission.

Sir, let’s toss some balls.
The loser hugs the winner?
(My wager is love.)

Yes, for the first time in Boston, I told a dude I loved him. Not for the first time in Boston, a dude in a bar laughed at me. Awesome. (He also completely kicked my ass in the game, but this was to be expected.)

Adventure #17: “Pick 5 things from your apartment that you no longer need & give them away to 5 people. Uncluttering + charity!” (from @ericfriction on twitter)

I purchased sweaters
in all the colors I hate.
Well, some need the warmth.

And into the Whole Foods drop box they went! Freeing up more drawer space for me to, I’m sure, buy more clothes I’m going to immediately tire of. I … I might need a make-over.

Adventure #19: “Drink a Hot Toddy.” (from Toddy)

Adventure #20: “please have a sweet snack and a cup of tea before bed if you can.” (from commenter Susie)

Earl Grey and brandy:
ghetto toddy burns so good,
with bacon cookies.

Yeah, you heard me, bacon cookies, because a year as enchanting and bizarre as this one deserves to end on a sweet but weird note, don’t you think?

The Verdict:  You guys! My last NTKOG of the project year! I — I don’t know what to think! There’s a lot happening in my head right now. What I can say for sure is that my epic and exquisite Choose My Adventure Day was the pitch-perfect end to the experiment that has made this past year undoubtedly among the greatest of my life.

Thank you guys for sticking with me through it! And trust me, this blog isn’t going anywhere. Give me a few hours to catch my breath and still my heart, then come back tomorrow for some schmaltzy reflections and news about what’s happening to the blog now that I’ve (oh my goodness!) finished the 250!

Happy weekend, kittens! Apologize for all the soppy posts lately, but I promise I’ve got something mind-numbingly idiotic to post for Monday. Prepare your most condescnding pity-moues, loves, ’cause I did something absolutely imbecilic. ’til then, though, two serious questions and a few silly answers.

1) As you may have noticed, after ten ad-free months, I’ve started sporting a BlogHer sidebar on the left. This is part of a meek attempt to monetize my site enough to pay for itself. But level with me, loves: do the ads bug you? You guys are the lifeblood for the project, and if you find the addition of advertising to the site offensive, let me know and I’ll do away with it at once.

Full disclosure: I first posted the ad code on Wednesday morning and, since then, have made approximately $7.50. By my extremely advanced calculations, this suggests I’ll be earning around $75.00 a month which, while indentured servitude wages for the amount of tie I spend writing this thing, is actually a pretty huge chunk of change to yours truly. That said, if it pains you, I’ll call off the code instantly. So let me know! (And, if there aren’t complaints, please don’t be alarmed or disheartened if you note some changes in my sidebars over the next few days: I want to play around with different ad systems to see how I can most efficiently earn a little $$$. But after experimenting, I promise to settle on no more than one sidebar ad situation, and a non-evil one, at that.)

2) As you really may have noticed: THE PROJECT IS ALMOST DONE! Currently I’ve got a double handful of NTKOGs left — just enough to fill up my blog ’til the deadline of August 23. That said, my parents happen to be in town the weekend before my deadline, and I was planning on having a little party with them to celebrate the best year of my life.

If I were to, theoretically, open the party up to my readers — nothing fancy, just drinks and apps at one of my favorite local bars — might you be interested in attending? Let us say the evening of Saturday, August 21. Somewhere in Boston or Brookline. I’m just looking to gauge interest to see what venue would be appropriate for this small but heartfelt affair.

Let me know your thoughts, guys! Yes, this is absolutely me giving you homework. Smooches!

NTKOG #211: The kind of guilt-wracked secret-keeper whose innermost thoughts are suitable for publication and/or framing.

I am: obsessed with secrets, both as social currency and as potential drinking-game fodder.

I am not: too into sharing my own. I hold very few things close to my chest (um, hi, ever read my blog?), and the rare secrets I do keep? Stay mine for a reason.

The Scene: The hallowed archives of Post Secret — possibly the most brilliant, poignant and occasionally hilarious interactive public art project ever conceived. I saw its creator, Frank Warren, give a talk at PWCU my senior year, and was incredibly moved by the presentation. In fact, in that overflowing auditorium of jaded undergrads, there wasn’t a dry friggin’ eye in the room. And ever since, I’ve been resolved to create and send my own secret.

So then why, three years later, is this still an NTKOG? Over the years, I’ve sketched, drafted and collaged dozens of Post Secrets but — I just didn’t want anyone else to know. As a writerly dude, I have to safeguard my emotional bomb-dropping. We don’t get many secrets in this world, and I know that if I just bide my time with mine, they’ll find the right way to come out in my fiction. And then there are the secrets that will probably never find their way out. But — but those are just too awful for human consumption, right?

Well, card’s on the way. We’ll see.

Anyway, since I’m obviously not going to scan my secret on here (anonymity’s a key aspect of the project!), I thought I’d give y’all a taste of my collage skills with a Post Secret inspired post about a topic I rarely discuss with other humans. As I’ve at least cryptically alluded to on here, for the past five or six years I’ve suffered from violently distressing dreams, bordering on intense hallucination.

I don’t talk about them a lot, ’cause they’re a friggin’ downer, but The Ex has many battle stories of me screaming him awake night after night, or rocking in my chair, half mad from days of wakefulness, fearfully policing myself against sleep. See what I mean? Total effin’ downer.

But here, for your amusement, Post-Secret-esque illustrations of a few of my more common nightmares:

The Verdict: Sharing secrets must be a good thing, right? Or else the internet wouldn’t be anybody’s best friend.

Yes! You asked ‘em and I’m answering ‘em! I still have oodles more questions to get through, so if I still haven’t answered yours, then 1) I’m a horrid beast, and 2) I promise I will, eventually. Among the lovely queries in my recent call for questions, I’ve noticed a few that came up repeatedly — and that also trend pretty high among the other blog comments, tweets, emails and psychic pleas that I receive. Let’s knock ‘em out in one fell swoop, shall we?

You asked: “I’ve never read any PG Wodehouse. Your blog is making me start to suspect this is a very sad fact. But where do I start?!”

A fantastic question that I never get sick of answering! PG Wodehouse is not only (in this reader’s opinion) the shining literary beacon of the interwar period, but the deftest humorist to lay pen to paper in the 20th century. He was also ridiculously prolific, which can make that WO-WU library shelf a trifle intimidating. Here’s where I’d begin if I had the extraordinary fortune of getting to start all over again:

Carry On, Jeeves. The Jeeves and Wooster stories are his best known works, and with good reason. Aristocratic ’20s idler Bertie Wooster is one of the most enduring narrators in English letters: he’s as warm-hearted as he is empty-headed, but goddamn can he turn a phrase. Carry On, Jeeves is the first collection, and stocked with ten of the fruitiest in Wodehouse’s oeuvre. (If you like ‘em, by the way, there are dozens more stories, as well as many Jeeves and Wooster novels. I like these less than the stories, because they’re a bit mean-spirited from me. But this is coming from a girl who has cried repeatedly at a Planters Peanuts commercial, so use your judgment.)

Ukridge. Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge is a financial giant in his own mind, and the stories revolving around him are laugh-out-loud farces hinging on elaborate cons and ill-fated get-rich-quick schemes. Sublimely ludicrous. This collection features all the best short stories.

Quick Service. Kind of drew this one out of a hat, but it’s my favorite of his stand-alone novels , and one of the most intricate, hilarious farces I’ve ever read. One of the many things I love about Wodehouse’s stories and novels is that they are in many ways formulaic — from the beginning, you know who will end up with whom, and it’s no mystery that everything will end up basically okay — but I can never predict through what ridiculously convoluted means the happy ending will come to pass. Most authors have mastered Chekhov’s gun, but Wodehouse lays out Chekhovs firecrackers: dozens and dozens of small plot details that all tend to go BANG at the same moment.

So there you go, guys. Those are my Wodehouse recommendations. Dude can write the pants off of anyone else who ever lived, and if my humble blog introduces just one like-minded person to his work then, dude, I will be unspeakably happy.

Jason F (and others) asked: “What was the scariest NTKOG to do?”

Socially speaking, the scariest was holding up a poster board sign with Walt Whitman quotes on a street corner for several hours. I’m often very anxious about crossing the line of social acceptability with NTKOGs: there’s a fine line between being outgoing and being perceived as actively (and dangerously!) insane. Plus, I’m a quiet and generally well-received person — it was shocking to have so many people avert their gaze and basically treat me like human garbage for an afternoon. Definitely made me rethink the way I treat canvassers.

On a way less intellectual level, the other one that springs to mind was going rock-climbing. Getting six feet off the ground may not sound intimidating, but I have such a bad fear of heights that I get nervous on staircases. I sort of played it like a joke, but this is the only NTKOG that has made me cry.

Ken O asked: “What has been the least expected change that being TKOG has made to your life?”

I didn’t really expect the blog to change me. When I conceived of the project, I thought of it purely as a writing project with a tiny lifestyle-change hook. But I can tell you right now I’m almost an entirely different person than the girl who registered this domain ten months ago. The most surprising aspect to me is that this has turned into something of a self-help blog.

When I conceived of the idea, I imagined it would be a humor blog filled with bad dates, boozy nights, a little thrill-seeking here and there. I thought it might change the things I do, but certainly didn’t envision it changing who I am. I assumed that, after a few months in Boston, I’d basically rebuild my own life, just in a different setting with a different cast.

It surprised me, then, when people started responding much more to the self-improvement posts than to the humor/adventure posts. It surprised me even more when the self-improvement posts actually started improving my, uh, self — to the point that I now spend a pretty huge chunk of my time actively working on self-improvement. Oh, and never, ever, ever dating — so much for that flippant sex & dating blog I thought I wanted!

David (and others) asked: “Which NTKOG do you feel has impacted you in the most direct and long-standing way?”

There are too many to list them all, but there are a few that jump to mind. In April, I started going to cafes after work to spend a few hours a day on my writing; now I’d be lost if I didn’t spent twenty or so hours a week in cafes or libraries, trying to Make Words Happen. Although I mostly live in the Boston Public Library now, ’cause it’s free, literary, and ice-cold on summer days.

I’ve become a lot more comfortable talking to strangers and, in retail situations, asking (very nicely) for exactly what I want. Turns out people can be incredibly nice to you, when you let them. I also make a much, much bigger effort to be very nice to strangers, even when they’re pushing my dang buttons. I’m not at all a gentle person by nature, and this is the first time in my life I’ve made a very active effort to quell my angerball.

The last huge change is that I’m significantly less uncomfortable when doing something weird or unorthodox in public. I dance or sing along with my iPod on the streets when I’m moved to; I’ve asked out many, many strangers; I canoodle in public with my stuffed elephant. I’ve become unspeakably eccentric and, you know what? Nobody’s given me a hard time about it.

That’s TKOG in a nutshell: I work harder; I’m nicer; I’m way, way, way weirder. From where I stand, these all seem like pretty darn good things to be!

Some Infrequently Asked friggin’ Questions! Part, like, five and a half, depending on how you count the announcement of last week’s giveaway winners! Click the “Shameless Self Promotion” category on the left sidebar to see the other entries from the series, if you’re so inclined.

From Jenn D.:

As a California born, East Coast transplant myself, I’d love to know what 3 things you miss the most about California life.

1. The weather. The weather the weather the weather. Call me an elitist West-Coast weather snob, but I have a little rule: if people in your hometown have to argue about which is worse, the summers or the winters, then maybe you should get a new hometown. (Personally, this desert rat can’t handle rain or extreme humidity. I don’t hate the snow, though.)
2. Amazing produce. Can’t beat a Northern California farmer’s market, complete with vegan spinach naan wraps, milk so fresh it’s sold unpasteurized, and champagne mangoes picked that very morning. ALL! YEAR! LONG!
3. People flying their dang freak flags. This might be Bay Area specific, but I love being able to go into San Francisco and see steampunks, anarchists, feminist goths, and super-fabulous transsexuals — all just, y’know, in their pajamas at the grocery store. Lots of the New England girls I’ve met are lovely creatures, but wear lots of fabrics with fussy little prints and never accidentally talk about sex dolls at job interviews and, y’know, actually care what people think about them. These are fine qualities, but I sometimes get sick of feeling like an incurable outsider.

Oh, and how do you feel about toe socks?

I live my life by an aggressively anti-sock agenda. Part of the rabid flipflop devotion.

From allypanda:

At the end of all this, do you feel like you don’t really like the girl you were before? Or have any regrets for living as you did before? Or is life all one big self improvement changing experience?

As thrilled as I am with the girl I’m rapidly becoming, I have no regrets or negative feelings for the life I led before. At the risk of sounding like a total doucher, I’m one of those people with a rare and annoying imperviousness to insecurity. Doubt, yes; angst, undoubtedly; but, not even too far from the surface, I love myself so much you can see it from space and have for many, many years — even at times when you would have had to be crazy to find much to love about me.

That said, I’ve never in my life felt so comfortable with other people. And every time I successfully test my limits or remind myself how much there is to adore about other people, I give myself more to love. If I could keep NTKOG-ing ’til the day I die — and what’s stopping me? — I think I’d be the happiest old crone ever lowered into this earth.

From Michael:

If you had grown up in England (God save the queen!), what would you say instead of dude?

Hmmm, “bloke” would serve well when I’m using “dude” to refer to dudes in the existential capacity of, y’know, dudeness, but what would be my ubiquitous go-to interjection?! I can’t tell you that, but what I can tell you is that a tired and distracted search for alternative slang interjections just led to me accidentally googling “British ejaculations”. At work. In front of my boss.

What’s the most unadventurous TKOG thing you do in your everyday life that makes you proud?

Most of the long-lasting NTKOG effects on my life are definitely subtle. The biggest one to me is that now I listen to more music in a single day than I used to in an entire month. And I’m being so literal when I say that. Now that I listen to 12-14 hours of music a day, it’s hard to believe that listening to music was once an NTKOG — but until a few months ago, I only had twelve songs in my iTunes library!

Other non-heroic changes that have made my life fuller and more beautiful: sending work out to literary journals (do it a few times a week); asking store-keepers for discounts for literally no reason (everyday occurrence now); having lengthy conversations with homeless people (multi-weekly). Plus, at least a few times a day, if I want something? I just ask someone. It usually works out well.

Is there a shameful secret weighing heavy on your mind that you’d like to share with your loyal blog readers?

There actually is, but I’m still working up the courage. It’s the answer to another “Ask Me Anything” question, though, so rest assured you’ll find out. For now, a bonus secret that I think a few readers don’t know: have you ever noticed the mouse-over text on every picture I post on here? It’s often my favorite line or two from any given entry!

From Dave:

If you won two matching $5.00 gift cards from a noted online book store, would you buy Wodehouse or Waugh (assuming quite correctly that you owned neither, but decided to give one of them a shot; Because after all it was costing you almost nothing)?

Oh my goodness, can we please talk about Wodehouse and Waugh? (“In fact, TKOG, it seems you can scarcely talk about anything else.”) They were contemporaneous — in fact, for a while they played on a cricket team with JM Barrie — and both of their oeuvres stand as the best existing studies of upper-crust British society (and its slang!) in the inter-war period. They’re also both laugh-out-loud funny and feature characters with bizarre names. These are some pretty big similarities, right?

The big difference: Wodehouse’s writing is light, drawing-room farce; Waugh’s early works are social satires so brutal they will singe your friggin’ skin. Which brings to my mind the excellent aphorism I once heard regarding the difference between comedy and satire: Comedy is light-hearted, but pessimistic; satire is mean-spirited, but still believes in change.

Anyway, I highly recommend both, but will always be a Wodehouse girl. And I’ll admit, I stay away from Waugh’s Very Serious Catholic Latter Works (including That Really Famous One).

From douchegirl (and several others via comment, tweet, and email):

Were you featured in the July issue of [a national magazine]?

Yes! It was! It was totally me! Sorry for editing all your comments, but I don’t want to go public with which magazine because I’m still attempting anonymity here. Also, I can’t BELIEVE how many of you recognized me! I don’t know whether that says more about me or about you…

From Erin, at The Fierce Beagle:

I’ll start with the obvious question: Are you, and also the folks you regularly feature in your tales, actually real human beings? And not, like, some 56-year-old dude coming up with all this while he’s supposed to be running spreadsheets at work?

Dude! Way to blow my big project reveal two months early! At least now I’ll save the cash and hassle of hiring a bunch of 20-something actors for the big blog wrap party in August. They totally wouldn’t have waded through all these dang archives to figure out their characters anyway.

–

I’ll see you tomorrow, possums! And for those of you who wished Nich a happy birthday yesterday, on here or on Twitter, many thanks and peanuts!

Kittens! I can’t tell you how much your comments and stories on yesterday’s post moved me. A few of them brought me to tears at my office desk, which was both touching and extremely socially awkward. I’d never really taken time to think about where I see myself in relation to domestic violence — I assumed that DV and I ran in different circles — but you guys have really convinced me that we all ought to be active observers, willing to take steps to avert potential tragedy.

So thank you guys for making my life better. And thank you for helping make me a better person.

That said, you know what good people do? Honor their friggin’ obligations! Apologies for the week-long wait, but, with no more ado, the ASK ME ANYTHING WINNERS! And thank you all so much for facilitating my self-absorption with your awesome questions! Both winners receive $5 Amazon gift certificates, which I have already emailed.

Winner, the first: Kate, who channeled James Lipton to ask:

What sound or noise do you love?
What sound or noise do you hate?
And, of course, what is your favorite curse word?

Three exceedingly good questions, which I mulled over for the better part of two hours and had a lot of fun answering here.

Winner, the second: Karolina, who played my weaknesses like Franz Liszt by asking:

1)Who’s your favorite member of The Drones Club? Which of the Eggs, Beans and Crumpets is, in your “humble” opinion the funniest, the dumbest or the most charming?

2)Could you please give some more excerpts of your pre-teen autobiographical ramblings?

Oh man, sucking up to teacher is an instant A+, apparently. My answers:

1) My favorite Drone is definitely Bingo Little, because he reminds me a lot of myself: he falls in love half a dozen times a day, is prone to embarrassingly showy gestures, and always makes a huge mess of it. Plus, I love that he’s the only Drone with an unswerving devotion to his life, who is an intellectual, literary lady whom I also quite admire.

Funniest Drone, for my money, is Freddie Widgeon, with his affable stupidity, easily won affections, and and fierce adherence to noblesse oblige. For stupidest, you’d have to search hard to find someone better than Tuppy Glossop at jumping for bad opportunities and alienating his loved ones, although I do like a man who values a midnight snack over his own matrimonial prospects. And most charming of course has to be awarded to Bertie Wooster — if only because that wildly agreeable con man Ukridge wasn’t an official Drone.

Man, also, as a bonus, because this is the one time I’ll ever talk about Wodehouse in such detail on the blog, my Drones crush: totally Oofy Prosser. He’s a self-absorbed skinflint with raging acne and zero social skills, but something tells me if I met him in real life, I’d be gazing soulfully at him within ten minutes. Sadly, all those dashing idlers were more likely to fall for tarted-up aristocrats with exquisite profiles and ’20s-racy names like Mabel. Something tells me that if Wodehouse were to write about me, I’d be cast as someone’s abomination of an aunt.

2) Yes you absolutely can have some more of my pre-teen ramblings! Here’s a poem that shows just how I earned the title Worst Teen Poet In Boston (subliminal message: come out in August to see me defend my crown of angsty thorns). For context, I wrote this in seventh grade and was absolutely not suicidal. I just thought that, in order to be an artiste (gag), one had to be actively courting death. Annotations in red.

i know it's illegal,     dude, it totally is not
but even still,
what does that change?

especially in nevada,
the land of sin,
and 99¢ shrimp cocktails.     i actually still say this sometimes

so where's the harm
in exercising imagination?
death must be nice.     oh hey, nice day for a NON-SEQUITUR! 

but even though the fantasy
of suicide is fun on occasion,     I like how I'm trying to be rational here. "Oh, man,
 I totally understand the urge to shuffle yo'self off this mortal coil, but let's do it
IN MODERATION, guys."i think i may have a problem...

is it right that all i do is think,
"geez, i'd love to be dead"?
instead of enjoying life?     and here I have lost the fine distinction between "poetry"
and "just kind of having an excessively angsty conversation with yourself"

everything i do becomes justification,
everything i tie, my hands work
invariably into a noose.     WHERE IS MY FUCKING PULITZER.

is it a hint?  from god?
or myself?  that, really
i'd be better off gone?     I actually wanted to say "better off dead" here, but was
 afraid that when this poem won its Pulitzer (see previous note), the producers
of that John Cusack movie would sue me.

maybe i'll try it sometime,     y'know, just for kicks
and see, if not anything else,
where the attraction falls.

but, when the knife hits its mark
maybe i'll discover it's not what i want,
and wind up in purgatory...
					again.     Oh man, NAILED IT! You see what I did there?
I am like the tween Maupassant of SEARING GODDAMN EMOTIONAL TWISTS!

Yeah, I was basically the most fun kid to raise EVER. Welp, that’s all I’ve got. Thanks for your questions, loves, and see you on Monday!