Surrogate Mother Gives Birth to Quintuplets for Free

This is absolutely wonderful, I think. A complete stranger agreed to give birth to a child for this couple. She agreed to morning sickness. She agreed to back pain. She agreed to back pain, labor and episiotomes. Originally she agreed to do it for money, but when she found out she would be carrying five children, she declined the money. That's gorgeous. She knew the parents would need the money and turned it down.

It's fantastic that someone would agree to bring more love to the world, especially when you are not directly involved. She's doing this for strangers. Random people she's agreeing to help. She made them a family and demanded that she get no compensation for it. She suffered so that they could love.

It's kinda like Jesus, but I think this might be better. Teresa Anderson is not the daughter of God, no one expects her to undergo such physical duress, she gained 80 pounds, and yet she did. She did it for the joy of bringing love around. The Jesus anecdote would have been much better if he was just a really nice guy who people killed and then God was like, "Hey, ya bunch of mangy fuckers, this is my son you've just now killed. All he wanted was for you folks to love each other." Or if God adopted him...which I think is brought up in a Kurt Vonnegut novel...Anyway, it would be a better story that way. More effective.

Also, check out the line, "Teresa Anderson had been carrying more than 18 and a half pounds of baby."

Found David Byrne's Blog. Cool stuff.

David Byrne is, in my opinion, one of the greatest artists of our time. He's remarkably talented at everything he does, from music to movies to writing, it would seem. I hear he even does some painting or something. There's probably a link on the Blog.

I propose my thesis on Friday. I've reread my proposal and found some grammatical errors, but I've already passed out the packets to the people who'll be responding. Oh well. Man is mortal, I'm still young. My movie won't be flawless, it'll be close. A surplus of commas in my proposal is a non-issue at this stage. I'm sure they'll understand.

If not, fuck 'em.

Nick read the previous draft of my proposal. I think he liked it. I like it, that's what really matters.

It's easier to be around Tristyn. I still feel in large part like we're dating, but we're seeing each other less. I get to flirt with her again. That's a lot of fun. This break is feeling a lot like the time before we started dating. The time before we shared a kiss after a party. The time before we went to the Pizza Cafe and split a pizza and talked about our families. It feels like the time we stayed up all night poking each other and giggling. It feels like the night she stuck a post-it note to my back that said, "I'm cute only when I breathe."

That note is stuck to my computer right now. I can look at it and smile and think of her. There's nothing ugly about it. It's her and it's me.

This is sorta how we started dating:
Tristyn and I were designated drivers at a party at The Annex. I had my tape recorder and we flirted a wee bit. That was actually the night I decided it might be worth while to flirt with her.

Then she came to one of our pre-screening-sign-up fiestas. We flirted a lot that night. Poked each other with pillows and fingers and laughed and sat near each other and tried to make like it wasn't a big deal we were close. 'Oh yeah,' we tried to say through body language, 'this is how I behave with all my friends.'

Then there were other parties, always flirting. It was a lot of fun. One night at Max and Derek's she drew a "Belly Button Monster" on her stomach with a sharpie. It was terrifyingly endearing. That's the night of the post-it note. That's the night I drove her home and walked her up to her apartment. Jeremy came up, too. He said he, "had to use the bathroom." So he rushed off to do that and Tristyn and I hung out in her foyer area and she said to me she 'quite fancied' me. And then she asked what we should do next.

And I kissed her.

I don't think we arranged for a date that night, but it wasn't too long after that we went to the Pizza Cafe.

By and by Jeremy came out and we went our separate ways, grinning all the while.

Ha! I love her. I still do.

According to an online survey, the pinnacle of science and reason, I know, I will not die until August 2066. I'll be 83 years old. And it says I'll die of cancer. That might be a bummer. But I think I'd prefer to just die of old age. 83 seems like a pretty good time to kick off. I'd get to see and do a bunch of things, learn a lot. Write a lot. Make a lot. See children and grandchildren and perhaps even great-grandchildren. I won't hold out specifically for that, but it might be neat.

Jeremy is afraid of growing old. He is afraid of not being as physically capable as he is now. He's afraid of having to rely on people. He's afraid of being feeble or weak. I wouldn't say that I look forward to old-age. But I will welcome it when it comes. It is a time to be revered, I think. I respect a lot of older people. They know and see and have seen. True, some grow senile or get Alzheimer's, but it's just a matter of not living on extremes to avoid that, I think. That doesn't mean you can't ever be on the edge, just keep it in moderation. Do something crazy, like a beer-fueled Vegas binge, then chill for a week in the sun.

Anyway, 83'd be fine.

So, I was completely over-reacting on that post where I was terrified about her and my future. It turns out a really big part of it was that we were right there with her roommates. Another is that she feels we can't be just happy and having fun out with each other. So, that was that. I've talked to her more since then and we're all cheery and whatnot, so things seem to be pretty good.

Disregard previous sarcasm.

The 4-Variable IQ Test. A fun diversion. I'm better at math than that would have you believe. I just severly dislike it.

All right, so my last post might be a little bit weird. And I don't feel so bad about us right now. But when you're caught up in it right there, it's difficult to tell what's going on.

On a lighter note. I was sceduled for a Sportszone shoot, it got cancelled, but I got to put in for the hours anyway. So that was five hours of money for doing nothing. Then, today, there was another one. It also got cancelled. Four more hours. That's nine hours of pay for doing no hours of work. That's 67 dollars and fifty cents. I love Sportszone.

Also, Patrick's father gonna take us out for dinner. Macaroni Grill. Sweet.

Sometimes when I see her I leave and think, "Great! We're still both in love with each other and she'll take me back no problem." I float out to my car and drive, grinning, to where-the-fuck-ever it is I have to go.

And then there are the times I leave feeling like this. I'm worried, I'm shaking. What if she doesn't take me back and leaves me a quivering jello mold of a man. What if I melt into a puddle and she walks through me. Jesus, what if I'm completely dumped in a month.

It's times like this that I don't understand why so many people react with anger first. I've just got this big empty sadness. A sort of hole. And it sucks. I'm sunk. I'm down.

The hardest part about seeing her is saying goodbye. It can't be a normal friend goodbye. Not right now. Maybe some day, if we don't work it out, maybe some day a couple of months down the line our "See you laters" will stick and we won't have to hold each other and comfort each other. But tonight was hard even for that. She was so unresponsive and sad, and I felt like she'd made up her mind on dumping me right then. She'd made up her mind and I wasn't catching on. What a downer. What a bummer. What a kick in the nuts.

Or maybe it was just really awkward because we were in her apartment saying goodbye. Maybe she wanted to say these things and couldn't because she was crippled with fear that her roommates would walk out and see us and be judgemental and make things ugly. Maybe she wanted to comfort me but couldn't risk looking weak in front of them.

And maybe we'll wake up and find all the people who died of cancer are alive and waiting for us to come out and play. Christ, Krister, get a grip. Occam's fucking razor.

God damn it.

I am worth $2,175,776.00 on HumanForSale.com

I want to get my MFA in Bear. Not in Ursine(fancy talk for bear) studies, but in being a bear.

Mom would be so proud.

It'd be useful for peak oil and it's myriad consequences, though.

I'm normally not a doomsayer, but this all makes so much sense. Whatever, I only worry about it when it's fresh on my mind.