Hormones

As the surge of new hormones floods through my body from the new implant (okay seriously? How many times am I going to mention that I'm a cyborg now? I love it.) I find myself running hot and cold. I am easily irritated but insanely horny. In totally unrelated news I've installed google analytics on my site and it's the coolest thing ever. I'm really enjoying finding out where people are coming from, what they're looking at the most and where they're going to. People spend a long time looking at each blog page, which theoretically means that they're actually reading what I have to say. SWEET! Thanks!

That reminds me, now that I have your attention, site news.

-Please, please, please go vote for me on the bondage awards. You can go vote once every 12 hours. It's especially important that you go vote now because if I don't get at least ten votes in this round I won't be able to progress to the next round, where I will beg you to go vote for me again.

-I have learned how to webcam (thanks RP!), will now have to install it. Once I do, members can look forward to live webcam shows where they can instruct me through chat and watch me obey to their every desire (well, almost every). I'm getting wet just thinking about it.

-R K Milholland of Something Positive has started drawing Isobel Wren comics! When those are complete I'll put them up on the site.

Anyway, back to what I was saying. Wouldn't it be super cool if we could put psychic spyware into own own brains? In my supersaturated horny state I find myself thinking something sexual about almost every attractive person I meet. I want to see the roman nose of the nerdy guy at the coffee shop buried in my snatch, I want to suck the ample breasts of a hot asian girl minding her own business waiting in line. I want to unzip the starched pants of the police officer guarding the toll bridge, pull out his cock and suck it while commuters zoom past us on the Mass Pike. If these people had sex analytics in their brains they would know instantly that someone just thought an unpure thought at them. Then, perhaps they would track me by my brain IP and ask me if I cared to share my thoughts. That police officer would pull me over for something much more fun than a broken tail light.

Oh, and who else totally ponders offering the nice officer some fellatio to get out of what is sure to be a totally brutal ticket? I do. I totally, totally do. Only unattractive cops ever pull me over though. And what's to stop him from simply writing up the ticket anyway after you blew him? I would be so pissed. Knowing my luck, he'd be a patrolman in those fancy new cars with the cameras and I'd end up on one of those, "crazy police videos" shows on Spike tv The announcer would be all, "This crazy nympho thought she could get out of a ticket by blowing the officer, but he turned her down cold! Next! On 'Stupid Sluts, Caught on Tape!'"

I have this really comfortable tank top given to me by Richard Cheese. It says, "I heart DICK" on it, so I really only wear it to bed or as an undershirt. Today, I did both. I meant to take it off and put another shirt on after I showered, but I got a late start and had to skip the shower. I slipped a bra under it and a sweater over it and headed to the airport. The weather was warmer than I thought it was though, so I soon stripped the sweater off, forgetting what my shirt said. I wondered why men were so nice to me and women gave me dirty looks until the young rapper-looking clerk at the ticket counter said, "You love dick, huh?" with a big grin on his face.

I had to explain that Richard Cheese is a lounge singer who is particularly awesome in his lounge-ification of popular songs. The other young male clerk walked up and chucked his chin at my shirt. "I can get down with that." he grinned.

"Naw dude. It's a lounge singer." replied the first

"Yeah." replied the second, with a puzzled look, "I heard her. I love lounge music. What'd you think I was talking about?"

The first blushed, "Aw man. I thought you was talkin' about her shirt. You down with her and what it says."

"I am!" the second insisted, blundering innocently on, "I love that guy! He's hilarious!"

The first guy just shook his head and handed me my ticket. I put my sweater back on. In a classic example of why my family thinks I'm "like this" on purpose, I promptly forgot what my shirt said and took the sweater off as soon as I got hot again. This garment version of wax on, wax off continued all day as I forgot, garnered stares, pondered the stares, remembered and put the sweater back on. I bet you my sex analytics brainware would have been logging record hits today.