On never been asked to forsake your tomb.

Resurrection! Honestly, my blogonality is becoming less like Lazarus and more like the Venture clones; clearly ever more dumb and painful than previous incarnations. And yes, I did just use the word blogonality. Deal with it.

I’ll take a brief moment to pretend that I’m doing this out of some genuine desire to Say Something, but really it’s just a guise for a class assignment involving the illustrious art of blog authoring, and it seemed kind of ridiculous to start yet another stunted presence on the interwebs that will merely serve as a constant reminder of how much I suck at this anymore. Loyal reader (Portugal? Still with me?), you will notice that the propensity towards run-on sentences has not suffered during my absence.

So, what, then. Grand updates on my life, as it were? No. You get nothing. I just have no desire to redact months of banal existence. You know the balancing act – life and work and school, oh my. If you know me at all, I’ve already been showering you with petty grievances and obnoxious whining (as is my want) while, you know, retaining just enough of that blasé charm that works so well for me. I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore, so out of practice at this 10,000-Words-About-Nothing business am I. More than likely I’ll be slinging some hazardously misshapen metaphors your way in a moment, so I suggest you use this time to prepare.

Should I start over? Introduce myself with an extended hand and a how the frak are ya? Can I take for granted that my Battlestar Galactica reference right there coupled with the abovementioned use of blogonality speaks volumes about what kind of person I am? Do I want those two minor details speaking volumes? No. Decidedly not. Though I do really like Battlestar Galactica.

I am Danielle. Some people call me Dani. Some days I have a preference. Today is not one of those days.

I am 27 years old. I am rapidly approaching 28, which will sooner or later become 30, and that scares the hell out of me.

I am from Brooklyn, NY. I live in Pottstown, PA. I moved to Pottstown late 2006. Answers to the questions in the order people ask them: Yes, it is a culture shock. Yes, I miss NY. Yes, I sort of like it here anyway, with a list of caveats to the statement. No, I do not have an accent because I decided to not. Yes, if you catch me after a few drinks and bring up a topic that boils my blood, I will probably lapse and say something embarrassing.

I have tattoos. I want more. If you have a tattoo as well, please do not use this fact to assume that we are at all alike. The simple possibility that you would think that means that we’re not. I assure you.

I wear a lot of black but it’s mostly because of laziness. I was a goth in high school and briefly thereafter, but you can only do that sort of thing so long before killing yourself. Sometimes you need to move on.

I mostly hate humanity but I’m pretty pleasant to individuals most of the time. I have no tolerance for stupidity, ignorance, sexism, bigotry, racism, or blind hatred of any variety. On the same token, I thoroughly enjoy tasteless humor than plays with all of them.

I am pretty good at Scrabble, but my husband and best friend are better. So I lose a lot.

My parents are dead. My mom died of cancer in November 2005. My dad followed suit in July 2006. Yes, it sucked. Thank you for saying so.

I have some siblings, some cats, some fish, some guinea pigs. I drive a red 97 Pontiac Sunfire. Her name is Dr. Girlfriend.

I like whiskey and cigarettes and Margaret Atwood novels. I like freak shows and burlesque and roller derby.

And my brain hurts. So. To be continued.