Showbiz
or
Screw This Noise, I'm Running To Hollywood

As anyone who has frequented my blog can tell, a few months in my life is a very long time. Mountains crumble. The entire surface of my daily landscape erupts, liquefies, and hardens into something unrecognizable.

I'm a creature of violent change. As always, my writing drops off like a frayed piece of twine, pulled too taught by the tectonic forces surrounding it. Forgive my silence.

Everything has changed.

My fiance, Greg, and I are no longer engaged. In fact, we don't even speak to each other. I left his domicile in Saint Louis on December 6th, 2010. Anyone who so much as utters his name will have their nipples torn off with red-hot iron pincers, and the raw wounds remaining shall be filled with rock salt and sewn shut with uncured pig-gut. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?

I'm like, over it, and stuff. Promise.

I no longer live in Las Vegas. One day, I simply packed up my things and left. I left my roommate of 5 years (Arturo), my cats (with him), and most of my worldly goods behind. I took only what I could carry, and drove off into the desert for Hollywood.

Not for fame, gentle readers. I'm not a fool. But perhaps for fortune, should she favor me.

I moved in with a friend who lives in Hollywood, a mere walk from the boulevard. We have a pleasant apartment big enough for the two of us, with cafes and shops nearby. He is kind to me, and we share an excellent friendship and working relationship. Together, we're producing his first feature film. (You can find out more about it here.)

For work, I've been freelance modeling. Don't laugh. I'm actually pretty good at it.

There are things I miss about Las Vegas, but I couldn't stay there. The city and it's horrible inhabitants were killing me. Moving to Los Angeles is the best thing I've ever done for myself.

More updates will follow, but I figured it was 'bout time I brought this picture up to speed.

Naturally Juicy
or
Yet Another Reason Why I'd Rather Live In Europe.

I'm usually not much for "Furries," but there is something about Orangina's latest ad campaign that I really dig. It's sexy. It's downright scintillating.

Why can't we have attractive, original advertising like this in the USA?

Oh yeah. Because we're a nation of prudes. We wouldn't "get" it. Orangina's sales would plummet because the American people can't handle a visually stunning stylistic comment on the animal nature of human sexuality that also subtly lampoons modern advertising tropes. Too deep for 'em.

Thank god for the French.

This first one - for Orangina Red - is my absolute favorite. It's also the most inaccessible for an American audience:




I think I'm in love with that black panther Domina.

This commercial is brilliant. Everything from the voice acting to the expression on the pudgy businessman's face is spot on. *Cough, not that I know anything about BDSM, cough* It's funny. It's entirely memorable, with viral video potential, and the viewer remembers the product with ease. Fantastic work.



This next one is the first ad I ever saw from this particular campaign. It's made its rounds on the internet pretty thoroughly, but it deserves a re-post, for being so beautifully done. It's a joy to watch.



I love the details in the animation. The deer woman's ears prick up and wiggle with emotion. When the chameleon man kisses the flower woman, excitement causes his skin to suddenly pulse with every color of the rainbow. The lighting throughout is natural, warm, and radiant. The ad is gorgeous to look at, perfectly scripted, and full of vibrant, sexy energy. A real winner in my book.



Next, a series of ad spots under 15 seconds. I love the way that they poke fun at common themes in advertising. So meta, I just want to kiss whoever came up with them!



In just 3 days, Orangina will clear up your skin! No artificial colors or flavors!





Active bears don't always have time to shower. That's why he uses Orangina!




This one speaks for itself. Also: It's so damned refreshing to see gay men acknowledged in everyday advertising. Fuck you, America.





Orangina is her secret for silky, shiny hair.


I want to applaud the firm that came up with this campaign: Fred & Farid. Yeah, their blog is in French. I apologize to the non-francophones among us. Use Google Translate or something.

Hope you guys enjoyed. I encourage you, gentle readers, to comment.

Friday, Bloody Friday
or
Paying The Price

Black Friday is depressing, and it scares the fuck out of me.



I will never understand the waddling herds of house-fraus that set up temporary villages outside of retailers for as long as a week. I can't even understand a single night in freezing rain.

I'm not always so keen on my family myself, but it's sad that they'd rather dream about saving 15% on ipods than spend time with their loved ones.

Often they "aren't even looking for anything in particular."

One of my greatest fears is being trampled to death. Like many other animals, large groups of humans have a tendency to stampede. I've only been in a stampede once before, but the memory will haunt me for life: he incoherent roar of the crowd; the overwhelming body heat; the inability to take a full breath, because every time I exhaled, the walls of meat surrounding me compressed my ribs ever tighter, like a mouse in the python's grasp. The inability to move, except where the crowd took me, unable to fight my way out. Unable to escape. My heart spasming like a clutched sparrow.

Well, that's what Black Friday shoppers do, every goddamned year. The minute retailers open their doors, the slavering hoard bursts in, rushing displays of goods with the mindful grace of spooked water buffalo. Many become injured. Others DIE. We are talking about human lives ground into extinction by their own greed and the greed of others.



Kind of makes me wonder how many avid Black Friday shoppers consider themselves Christian. Isn't greed a sin? A . . . deadly sin?

They aren't human anymore. They're a mob. They tear at each other with fingernails, knives, and fists for the last Xbox. They fatally shoot each other - at Toys R Us.

This is one of the ugliest sides of humanity. It makes me ill. Look at their wild eyes - the rabid desire to buy something, anything, EVERYTHING! for no reason other than to have it. Buy buy buy BUY! Sell your soul for 25% off blu-ray DVD's!

Two Fowl For My Kitchen
or
Cornish Cornhole

Behold: HUMANS! the animal kingdom's most voracious apex predator. We kill stuff! We eat it. It's what we were born to do. Whether a creature creeps, slithers, gallops, swims, flies, or squirms, it doesn't matter. It's a potential dinner. Hell, we even like to eat each other.

This is what separates man from beast.

Thanksgiving is the perfect holiday to celebrate Man's triumph over the natural world. And there's no better way to honor our place at the top of the food chain than by indulging in our greatest culinary achievement - animals stuffed inside other animals.

Ever since I found out about Turducken, I've been obsessed with the concept. Apparently I'm not the only one. Multi-bird roasts are becoming more popular every year. This chef went as far as to create a twelve-specie bird roast based on recipes from Medieval times. It feeds 125 people and takes 8 hours to cook, once assembled. You go, dude.

Since I didn't have any other plans for Thanksgiving this year, I thought I'd attempt to follow suit.

I'd never roasted a turkey before, but if millions of Valium-addled housewives can do it every year, so can I.

I'm a bit too much of a novice for 12 birds. At Greg's insistence, we settled on two: A 12 pound turkey, and a 1.5 pound Cornish game hen.

Preparation took about two hours. Greg was good enough to document our poultry adventure step by step. Here's what we did:

First, I cut the skin down the center, and peeled it back off the breast, legs, and thighs. Then,
I made many small incisions in the meat, and filled them with slivers of garlic and green onion.

I put a mixture of rosemary, sage, basil, salt, and pepper on the meat under

the skin, and crammed fresh cilantro leaves throughout.

The Cornish hen received a mushroom, a lime, and some onion up its butt,
and went in the oven for pre-roasting.

Here I am rubbing the outside of the turkey with herbed butter.

I packed over a pound of mushrooms and a pound of sliced onions
in around the meat, under the turkey's skin.

I'm giving the partially roasted hen a good-luck kiss before shoving it up the turkey's fundament.

In it goes!

Greg came up with the idea of closing the skin using toothpicks. Our bird(s) had punk rock appeal.

In the oven, ready to go!

Partially done. Time for a good basting . . .

Finished bird!

The hen is so tender, we can't remove it from the turkey without dismantling it.

Staring into the meat-womb, from which the hen was birthed.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Oh, and may I say that this turkey was the most exceptional Thanksgiving feast I have ever had in my life. The garlic and herbs permeated the turkey to the very bone. With all the veggies releasing their juices inside the skin, Even the breast meat was moist and flavorful. Greg and I each had a turkey drumstick and a game hen leg. The game hen had its own flavor. The meat was so soft, it was like butter. It melted off the bone with the lightest touch. Tender. Complex. A symphony of roast poultry, herbs, onions, and butter. We ate the mushrooms and onions as a side dish. It was so good, I felt drugged afterward.

There simply aren't enough words to describe it. Next year, I'm dong at least 5 birds one inside the other.

P.S. Greg came up with the titles. He just . . . wow. I am jealous I didn't think of "Cornish Cornhole" first.

Memoirs of a Robogeisha
or
Rectal Exsanguination

B-movies, gentle reader, make life worth living. There is no room for debate on the subject. If you don't agree with me, then I have no idea why you're still reading my blog.

The latest installment in Judas Phoenix Science Theater 3000 is a tale of sibling rivalry, the search for self-identity in a post-humanist cyborgian world, traditional Japanese arts, and mindless slaughter - all topped off with a heaping, gooey dose of sexploitation. Thanks to director Noboru Iguchi, I can satisfy every aspect of my "so-bad-it's-good" movie craving in one straight shot to the lizard brain.

Writing a general summary is boring, so if you really care about the general "plot" of this glorious piece of trash, feel free to read this paragraph stolen from IMDB:
Yoshie, the younger and ill-treated sister of a renowned Geisha, is discovered to have natural strength and fighting ability. She's recruited into an army of Geisha assassins by the rich and powerful owner of a steel-works, Kageno. During training large (and interesting) parts of their bodies are altered into weaponry directly linked to their brains. Yoshie soon realizes that Kagenos real plan is to have his robotic castle throw a new and very powerful nuclear bomb into the centre of Fuji-san, effectively destroying Japan entirely. With the help of other 'Kageno defectors', she sets out to stop him and his Tengu warriors.

Sounds pretty dry, no? In all truth, I'm impressed that anyone could make Robogeisha sound so coherent.

But we don't watch these things for riveting story lines, do we, gentle readers? No! Never, I say! We watch them because they're hilarious. We watch them for the shitty special effects, pulpy dialogue, and tits 'n ass. We watch them because they don't take themselves seriously.

Without further ado, I present some screenshots for your enjoyment:


Here's the Tengu warriors terrorizing a Japanese businessman:

I suppose that explains the angry, red dick-noses.

Those dick-tits aren't just for show. They mean business.

Defacing a nurse. Just because.

Our heroine prepares to strike at her sister.

Or maybe the sister is about to take a smack at our Heroine? They look so much alike, I couldn't tell for most of the movie who was who. WHAT? I'm not being racist. It's the pancake geishaface makeup. Geeze.

Ah, sibling rivalry. Big Sis gets a boob-gun . . .

Behold, the birth of a new fetish. A nation wanks . . . uh weeps. Weeps.

. . . so Little Sis has to get arm-pit swords . . .

Her pits shave themselves.

. . . and then Big Sis gets her head rewired . . .

I smell turquoise in here. 'Scuse me Mr. Nice Man, have you seen my mommy?
OH GOD, I CAN'T REMEMBER MY DOG'S NAAAAAAAAME!

. . . which means Little Sis has to turn into a tank . . .

No shit!

. . . everybody decides to get buttswords . . .

I'm going to invest in buttsword futures now, before buttfencing
becomes the national sport of Japan.

A schoolgirl also gets a sword in the butt. Not quite the same thing.

. . . asshurikens . . .



. . . and you know what they say: it's all fun and games, until someone gets a shrimp in the eye.


I know what you're thinking. Where's the guy in a monster suit, lumbering around a pint-sized mock-up of Tokyo? Here you go. A castle robot. This is a new one for me, too, and that's saying something.

Japanese skyscrapers have circulatory systems. No wonder their manufacturing
industry surpasses ours. BUY AMERICAN BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE.

Looks like a lot of fun, huh?

I give it an 8/10 for the genre. Go see Robogeisha. It's Japanese - so you know it's good!

My Best Asset?
or
I'm Famous . . . On The Internet

Back in my early 20's I performed in a video for a website called Tonguefetish.net. I was paid 50 bucks for my trouble, and I promptly forgot about it.

Five years later, a friend told me that my video was on Reddit, and people were going nuts over it. She sent me the link, and sure enough, it was there, though not in its original form. Someone had taken the time to make a moving .gif from the video clip, and THAT is what people were commenting on.

I read through all the comments, basking in the positive attention (especially the Franka Potente and Leeloo references). Towards the bottom of the page, I noticed that someone had posted a youtube link. With trepidation, I clicked it. Someone had posted my video clip on youtube about a year ago. Since then, it has gotten over 106,000 views. What. The. Fuck. That's over 300 views EVERY SINGLE DAY SINCE IT WAS POSTED.

I have to say, I'm rather flattered.

The thing is, what do I do from here? Should I make my own tongue website? There has to be a way to profit from this.

Anyone have any ideas?

Wizard People, Dear Readers
or
A Love Letter To Mr. Neely

Dear Brad Neely,

We've known each other for a few years now. I remember when I first saw your commercial on Adult Swim for SuperDeluxe.com. Little did I know that when I visited that website I would fall in love.

Yes, Mr. Neely. I am in love with your work.

I'm not afraid to say it.

From the moment I first laid eyes on Babycakes, your bewildered, curious Man-child, I became obsessed. As I watched him try to make sense of his world, I reveled in each episode's insight and imagination. Not only did I see my Dungeons and Dragons obsessed friends in him, I saw myself. I wanted more.

Next, I met Professors Frank and Steve Smith, the first a whiny social misfit, the second a career dickhead. Together, The Professor Brothers made me laugh with abandon and gave me enough humorous quotes to last a decade.

You could have stopped there. You would have had me for life. But being the bright star that you are, you came up with this: a rapping Leprechaun.

I was so happy when I discovered your personal website and found your comics and drawings.

Little did I know that your masterpiece was yet to come.

One day, I stumbled across the "Illegal Art" website, and on it, your unauthorized work "Wizard People, Dear Reader." As the page instructed, I acquired a copy of Harry Potter and The Sorcerer's Stone on DVD, and synced up your audio tracks a la "The Dark Side of OZ." The results were astonishing. I was in stitches for hours, almost unable to breathe for laughing so hard. I was afraid to stop the tracks to catch my breath, for fear the jokes would lose their flawless timing.

"Wizard People, Dear Reader" is, without a doubt, the funniest movie spoof I have ever seen. You should know, Mr. Neely, that I am a devoted Mystery Science Theater 3000 fan as well, and take such material seriously.

Keep up the fantastic work.

Love,
Crazed Fan.

Garbage To Gold

or

Mush to Mush

The latest installment in my broke-ass cuisine series (and NO this isn't turning into a food blog. I've just been doing a lot of cooking. Don't look at me like that.) involves two apples waaaayyyy past their prime. We're talking 90 or 95 in apple years. Half-rotten would be more accurate than half-fresh.

They looked kinda like this:

Mmmmmmm. Yummy.

I felt sorry for them, to tell you the truth. I bought them in the peak of their flavor and freshness and then proceeded to neglect them on the counter. For an entire month. Reprehensible.

If I waited one more day, I knew that they would fester before my very eyes. Perhaps I could cook them into something useful, so their counter-top vigil would not have been in vain.

Then it came to me. Applesauce. Hell, they were already mushy. It wouldn't be a far stretch.

So I hacked 'em up, peeled off their wizened skin, and threw the chunks in a pot with a little water. To breathe life back into the decrepit fruits, I performed an Aztec ritual, sacrificing the body and blood of a supple virgin pear into the pot as well. Two sprays of butter flavored Pam. A pinch of salt. A 1/4 cup of brown sugar. Liberal cinnamon. Dashes of allspice and cloves. A tablespoon of vanilla. Then on went the lid.

I simmered the fruit for about 45 minutes, until the pieces mashed effortlessly with a flimsy plastic whisk. I left a few big chunks of fruit for texture.

We ate it while it was still hot, pouring a little milk over it to cool it off.

It was the best damned applesauce Greg and I had ever tasted.

Dem Bones

or

Broke Stocker

I'm broke, Gentle Readers. But that doesn't mean I can't eat well. If anything, I'm eating better than ever, thanks to cooking so often. One of my favorite foods is soup. It doesn't matter what kind. I just like food that doesn't overtax my misaligned jaw. I like to drink my meals, so to speak (like the blood sucking mosquito woman I am). When I have oodles of cash, I buy it prepared. Usually I go for the specialty stuff in the deli cold-case, but I do cans, too.

Well, that shit is expensive. Rather than give it up, I've gotten savvy. Now I make my own chicken stock out of veritable scraps.

I know there are tons of blogs all over the internet that describe this process, but screw it. I want to do it, too. I want you, Gentle Readers to picture me shuffling around the kitchen with a bottle of wine, ham-handedly pitching chicken parts at a stockpot. Here we go:

1) Buy a rotisserie chicken at Sam's Club for 5 bucks. Get the meatiest, largest bastard you can find. Greg and I did some weight comparison once, and there's a pound difference between the biggest and smallest ones. Observe:

2) Carve that bitch. You want dem bones for the stock, as well as the back meat, wings, and any gristle and skin. Reserve the breast meat for scrammitches or pasta or whatever. Eat the leg meats if you're hungry for chicken right away, but save the bones and skin. Or just strip the leg meat too. Cut off the wings and save them. Leave the meat on the back of the carcass. Except for the oysters. Because they are, as they say, les sot-l'y-laisse. Eat them while the chicken is still warm from the store.

3) Get your hands on some onions of any color you like. Yellow tends to be cheapest. If you're as broke as me, you can just use the brown, papery skins and chopped-off ends of each onion, and put the edible parts in a ziplock in the fridge. Get about 4 onions' worth of rubbish.

4) Get some celery. It doesn't matter if it's brownish or ugly. As long as it hasn't liquefied, you can use it. As with the onions, if you're broke, cut all the leafy bits and bottoms off of your nice edible ribs, and put the pretty bits in the fridge. What a great use for rubbish. Oh yeah, and those tiny baby ribs in the very center that are too small to eat - those go in the pot, too.

5) Carrot time. I used some bulk baby carrots that had seen better days, but you could use any. Even the "normal" carrots you see on sale in the grocery store. Tops, tips, wilted, whatever. You get it.

6) Raid your fridge. Eww, slimy scallions. A few salvageable sprigs of Italian parsley. A bell pepper on the verge of collapse. Mushroom stems. Why-the-fuck-do-we-have chives. You name it, it will probably work, and will probably kick ass. Me, I had some leeks I had bought on sale at the Asian market 3 weeks prior. Pulled off the outer layer, and they were good to go.

7) Time to bust things up. Rough chop your veggies (you'll be straining them out later). Pry apart your chicken carcass with your hands, and try to break a few of the bones. Separate rib-cage from spine. Rend the fragile wing bones and howl at the moon.

8) You must have cloves of garlic, chopped in half. This is non-negotiable. You must have many. Like, 7 of them

9) Throw all your goodies in whatever big pot you have available. Fill the rest of the pot with water, plus a goodly slosh of whatever wine you're drinking at the moment. Add peppercorns if you have them. And if you want to be as cool as me, throw in 2 or 3 bay leaves. BUT DON'T ADD SALT. You can salt the stock when you turn it into soup.

10) Put the disgusting-looking swill on the stove. Bring it to a simmer, then turn it down just a touch, and throw a lid on it. After 1 hour, your house should smell fantastic. Simmer for 3-4 hours. Uncover. Skim off any white foam that comes to the top. Allow the liquid to reduce a little for another 30 to 60 minutes. Eyeball it. Give it a taste. Too weak? Let more liquid die off. Too strong? No such animal.

11) Allow the swill to cool. Strain out all the solids. You are now the proud owner of a pot of chicken stock.

12) If you put your stock in the fridge overnight, you can skim off all the fat that rises to the surface. It doesn't taste any different, and it's healthier that way.

13) You can freeze stock.

14) Make some SOUP. Or something. I mean, you could use it to cook rice or veggies, I guess, but then you wouldn't have SOUP. Maybe next time I'll give you a soup recipe.

You wouldn't believe the awesome stuff that Greg and I have made with our stocks. Soups, of course. And Greg reduced some of his so much, it became a syrupy chicken demi glace. We've been adding spoonfuls of the demi to our sauteed veggies, and nearly weeping at the glory.

Happy carcass boiling!

Edit: 10/9/2010 A vegetarian friend of mine reminded me that you can do the same thing with just the veggie peels and tops and whatnot to create veggie stock. Thanks, dude. I should have mentioned that! But yes, it works equally well that way. (Though, if I were going to do that, I'd use a few whole onions as well, instead of just tops. Maybe reduce it a little more than usual. Still delicious!)

Recovery
or
"The Otorrhea" Is Not The Title of An Italian Opera

For those of you who didn't know, I've been very sick lately.

The illness struck Greg first, who developed ear pressure and pain on first one, then both sides. That was about two weeks ago.

I left for Vegas on the 16th, feeling shaky and nauseous. I slept almost constantly once I arrived. I chalked it up to nerves. After all, I had no appetite. I began to have feverish dreams, waking every hour or two to wander the house disoriented, before dropping onto the bed again.

Somehow I scraped myself off the carpet long enough to make it to The Pirate's Ball across the street from my house - in costume, no less. Nerves, just nerves, I told myself. A few drinks into the night, my senses were dulled enough to dance and frolic with the other pirates. See, I was going to be fine!

When I awoke from nightmares on the 19th, my lymph nodes in my neck were enormous. I could barely turn my head. I had pain inside my left ear, and couldn't walk around without bumping into walls. I had body chills. I had visual and auditory hallucinations. I'd never had a bug quite like it before.

Naturally I went to the doctor. My good friend Sam took me, as I was broke, and in no condition to drive. I had the equilibrium of a drunk. (Bless you, Sam. You saved my biscuits.)

The doctor was unsure which microbes were ailing me. After looking into all of my cranial orifices, I believe her exact words were: "I have no idea what it is, but let's give you some kickass antibiotics to knock it out of you." We began with an injection of Rocephin. She then prescribed me Doxycycline - 100 mg capsules, 2 of them a day. No kiddie stuff, here.

Rocephin is the antibiotic of choice for preventing infection after major surgery. It's also effective against meningitis, septicemia (blood poisoning), Necrotizing fasciitis (flesh-eating bacteria), bone infections, as well as typhoid fever. Among many other things. They administer it by injection or IV. I got mine shoved into my flank, which hurt like a bitch, but I didn't care too much. Injections work swiftly. I wanted to feel better as soon as possible.

Doxycycline will take just about any bacteria (and some parasites) out of commission. It's often used to prevent resistant strains of malaria. It'll help you if you've been exposed to aerosolized anthrax. If the Europeans of the Middle Ages had access to doxycycline, they wouldn't have known the scourges of black plague or cholera.

Either one of the two will take out every bacterial STI known to man.

I felt somewhat better the next day. Enough to go to the firing range with Sam. He's the one who took that freaking wonderful photo of me with the m249 SAW.

Don't tell the range master, but (guns + girl) = SEX^r , where r is how many rounds I shot on full-auto.

We also had a lovely luncheon at the Red Velvet Cafe. I recommend it for all vegetarian, vegan, and cake-loving types. They make the world's best desserts. All of them VEGAN. (Are the tears of angels vegan? I suppose they must be.)

By the next day, I had devolved into a bed-ridden amoeba. I was so weak and woozy, I could not stand of my own volition. I lay limp under the sheets, sticky and wan like a poorly made waxwork.

Arturo moved the spare bed into the living room, so I could watch movies with him and use the computer while I rested. I stayed in the same spot for nearly a week.

I'm unsure whether it was the illness or the medication, but while I lay that week, I endured strange symptoms, even as my throat and ears began to heal. Great purple contusions appeared mysteriously on my body. (Editor's note: as of 10/07/2010, the original bruises are still green shadows, and later ones are yet purple.) Nausea and vomiting kept me from eating or drinking for hours at a time. And the fatigue was smothering. Never in my life have I been so tired. Yet when I closed my eyes, demonic technicolor faces leered at me in the darkness, mutating into hideous crustaceans that smushed and garbled into one another until I begged Arturo to turn on the lamp and we slept in the light.

I recovered slowly. By the time I finished my antibiotics, I felt no more physical symptoms, and my appetite has returned, but the fatigue remains. How long it will be until it fully lifts? I don't know.

All I know is that Greg never had the bulk of my symptoms. Instead, his illness concentrated in his ears, dampening his hearing and causing him pain in both sides of his head. He also experienced the nightmares and feverish thoughts that made my illness so hellish. He also has otorrhea. Which in layman's terms means:

Kermit green goo coming out of your earhole.

Don't let the photo deceive you, kids. This stuff is Kermit the frog frickin' green.

Would someone like to tell us what on earth we had?

UPDATE 10/7/2010: We've both been given the clean bill of health. I'm still really tired, pale, and shakey. Greg is too strong to admit it, but he looks kinda sick still, too. Ears still leaking green fluid. Doctor says this is not worrisome. Whatever.

But it's not Lupus. It's NEVER Lupus.

P.S. Here's some articles on my antibiotics in case you guys think I'm making everything up. Copy and paste, you lazy bastards.


http://www.drugs.com/pro/doxycycline-hyclate.html

http://www.rxlist.com/doryx-drug.htm

http://www.webmd.com/drugs/drug-7012-Rocephin+Inj.aspx?drugid=7012&drugname=Rocephin+Inj&source=0&pagenumber=4


http://antibiotics.emedtv.com/rocephin/what-is-rocephin-used-for.html

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0000848