I met a fit (and you’ll know it), witty blogger at our fantastic SF Meetup this summer and I was immediately smitten like a kitten. She played it cool though, observing all the shenanigans around her while remaining slightly apart from the hoi polloi, a sphinx in our midst with an inscrutable smile. Either that or she was bored. Or pissed that I made her leave the east bay for North Beach.

No matter. Next to her, I was tigger, bouncing about, pouncing on Oms and Vinods alike, leaving glitter on everyone who had the misfortune of being accosted by a squealing, hugging, air kissing, scenery-masticator. Leaving the Meetup was like walking out of Scores après-laptease, you were marked by the shimmer of this social beast.

Not her, though. I didn’t dare sully her hipper-than-thou, old skool track jacket, nor did I ever notice the omniscient eyes behind her alternagirl specs change their appraising gaze. Who was this woman? What was she considering so carefully as she observed the dozen desis around her? Where did she get that outfit? I wanted her. To tell me, I mean. ;)

I always get what I want (even when it’s so late in the game, I no longer want it, but that’s not the case here so let’s cut the parenthetical chitchat, shall we?)

Meet our next guestblogger, Ads. She’s a Buddhist guitarist, a left-coast dwelling east-coaster, an all-around original who remains anonymous, because you would all stalk her if you could (you know you would).

Sigh. I haven’t had a pledge to haze since college (Cicatrix wasn’t interested in getting paddled by ME). It feels ridiculously good to be someone’s akka again.

Now. Just because I

  • make her do flatliner shots whenever she forgets to state everything in the form of a question
  • lie to Abhi about how she’s a Creationist so he’ll follow/berate her
  • wake her in the middle of the night via airhorn
  • lock her in the freezer for kicks
  • force her to answer Ennis’ fanmail
  • have her pick the lint off all the teeshirts in the store room
  • order her to Trader Joe’s to fetch my preferred brand of 1% milk

or otherwise torture her doesn’t mean you are allowed to do so— be good to her or feel the wrath of my stiletto heels. And no, you won’t enjoy it. Ladies and Gentlemen, straight out of a very small and uncomfortable spot in the North Dakota bunker— Ads!