So, I have a little confession.

I used to like the Anita Blake vampire series (by Laurell K. Hamilton).

I blame my friend for getting me hooked on the series. She gave me the first two books in the series for Christmas one year. Now, for those of you that know me, I’m a book fanatic. Seriously. When people ask me what my drug of choice is, I usually tell them “book.”

Okay, I’m lying. Nobody really ever asks me what my drug of choice is. Wouldn’t that be kind of creepy? But if someone ever DOES ask me what my drug of choice is, I’m ready with my witty answer! Yeah. I’m cool like that.

Witty or not, reading has occasionally been a big enough problem in my life that I’ve had to take short breaks from it, just to prove that I can. Non-readers don’t seem to understand that reading can actually be just as destructive as any other bad habit. If I played video games 7 or 8 hours a day, people would stage an intervention. However, if I spend 7 or 8 hours a day absorbed in a book, people smile and encourage it. A lot of people don’t understand the narcotic effect of a good book. It can suck you in and leave you helplessly enthralled until you finish it. With a really good book, things like eating, or sleep, or even going pee stop being necessary bodily functions. They exist only as annoying interruptions that come between you and the next page.

Readers, you know what I’m talking about. It’s 4 in the morning, your alarm is set to go off in two hours, your eyes are hot, gritty, and feel like they’ve been sand blasted… But you just want to get to the next chapter! Surely the next chapter will have a stopping point! You slip out of bed, book three inches from your nose, hand trailing along the wall as you feel your way to the bathroom. You may have to pee, but that doesn’t mean you have to stop reading! The trip takes 5 times longer than it needs to, because you’re trying to figure out ways to rip the toilet paper with only one hand. (Voice of Experience: Pull out more than you need and use your elbow to hold down the toilet paper roll to rip.)

Yeah. I like books. I like books the way heroin addicts like their heroin.

So when my best friend handed me two brand new books, I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven. When she told me she’d bought me the books because the main character reminded her of me… Well, it was like throwing gasoline on an already raging inferno.

For those of you who haven’t read the Anita Blake series, I am here to tell you that you’re probably better off. Don’t get me wrong— if you look past the unnecessary sex, the series is fun, in that turn-your brain off, fun-fiction kind of a way. I mean, any book that is filed under the “Paranormal Romance” section of a bookstore isn’t going to be good for the brain. Still, I found the first few books fun to read, and doubly so because my friend said the main character reminded her of me.

I mean… COOL.

Anita Blake is a vampire executioner, necromancer, who is tough as nails, witty, doesn’t take crap from anyone, beats up the bad guys she doesn’t just shoot, and still has every guy panting after her for her hot little body!

Just like me!

(SNORT.)

The problem with the Anita Blake series is that somewhere around book three or four, the focus shifts. They go from centering on Anita Blake, vampire hunter to Anita Blake, BDSM porn star. It’s a gradual, sneaky shift. One day you’re enjoying scenes of killer zombies and police shoot-outs with the occasional mention of a sexy Master vampire or alpha werewolf… and then the next day you have an ah-ha moment and realize…Huh. I’m pretty sure I’m reading porn. There’s no real plot here, and everyone is having unbelievably disgustingly graphic BDSM sex with every one else in the name of furthering the non-existent plot line… wait a second! Why am I reading this trash again?

Sigh. What a waste of a series. I really recommend NOT reading it.

So, now that I have warned you that I DON’T recommend it, and you AREN’T allowed to judge me for having once filled my head with this trash…

I have a funny little story about it.

I was about 30 pages from the end of one of the books, totally absorbed. It was one of those climactic endings— everyone is about to find out whodunit, and why…. The bad guys have kidnapped some of the good guys, and have sent their representative with a little box containing a chopped-off pinky finger. (Ewwwww…. Cooooool.)

Anita and her posse have decided to fight fire with fire, and are going to chop off the fingers of the representative, one at a time, until he gives up the information on where they are keeping the kidnapped victims. (Ewwwww! Double coooool!). Anita has just realized that she can’t ask anyone to do what she’s not willing to do herself. She steels herself for the task, asking one of her team to hold out the man’s hand. She grabs the knife, setting its edge against the man’s finger. She asks him for the information one last time, and when she refuses, she…

Pushes her son down the street on his bicycle, marveling at the colors of the sunset, laughing in joy at the peace of the moment as she realizes how beautiful life truly is!

WAIT. WHAT?!

Rudely jolted out of the ether spell the book had put me under, I looked at the page I had just finished reading. Had I skipped a page? A really, really crucial page?

No, no…. There was Anita. Yeah, I remember that. And there was the bloody finger… yeah, yeah… And there was the knife, about to saw down and spray blood everywhere in a graphic, gory, totally awesome act of retribution….

And then right there on the next page, there was some random woman, with some stupid little kid on a bike, riding down some stupid little sunset-filled lane. WTH? I didn’t want sunsets and happiness! I wanted my dismembered finger! Frantic, I flipped ahead the last few pages… and to my horror, realized that the rest of the book was about the stupid woman, her stupid kid, and her stupid happiness with stupid, placid little life. Glancing at the page again, I noticed that it was different typeset. A glance at the top confirmed my suspicions: Some publisher out there had printed 412 pages of Blue Moon, and then finished it off with 20 pages of Turtle Moon.

It was 1:30 in the morning. All the stores were closed, I was less than 20 pages away from the end of a 400 page book, and I couldn’t finish the darn thing.

I was livid, pacing the floor of my apartment in my desperate need to know the end of the book. I tried to find it online, to no avail. I finally gave up, and lay down in my bed, setting my alarm to make sure that I had enough time to swing by a bookstore on my way to school in the morning.

The only thing that helped salvage the situation was realizing that somewhere out there there was a woman just like me… A woman who was about 20 pages from the end of her happy little book, smiling and teary-eyed at the beauty of the world…. only to turn the page and find someone’s chopped off finger flying at her.

I guess if I had to choose I’d rather be in my shoes. That had to be one heck of a shock.

Would anyone like to buy my noisy, noisy, oh-so-noisy cocker spaniel?

He’s a very nice dog.

He only pees in the house when he feels neglected or left out.

He’s crate-trained, but unfortunately he’s not very stoic. He’ll wake you up, whining in the middle of the night.

You’ll stagger out of bed to let him out of the kennel, and he dart out, slamming against door frames and walls, claws skittering against the wood floors. He’ll scramble for the door like his tail stump is on fire, body tense and eager as he bolts straight outside—- to take a drink of water.

When you’re thirsty, you’re thirsty, I guess.

Oh, and if he drinks water, you’ll be woken up in about 2 hours for him to go pee.

When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. I guess.

(Note: Do not ignore his whining, or you will be doing laundry and washing a dog the next morning.)

He’s sweet, but not very bright. He’s great with cats, kids, and babies, but did I mention he’s not very bright at all?

He’s not very bright. AT ALL.

In fact, would anyone like to buy my sweet, but very stupid cocker spaniel? He’s for sale! The first person who can promise me a full nights sleep can have him for a nickel!

Last night the DragonMonkey slept through the night. This is a rare occurrence in this household, and is usually accompanied the following morning by much cheering and celebration.

This morning I did not feel rested.

This is due in no small part to Max, the world’s nosiest dog with the world’s tiniest bladder.

After my third time getting up out of bed to meet his drinking and peeing needs, I decided to just leave the back door open and let him roam around the living room. I knew I was taking a chance that he might get into the baby’s toy box (also known as THE BOX THAT HOLDS ALL OF THE TASTIEST DOG TOYS IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE), but after my third time up I really didn’t care.

He could have eaten the sofa and I wouldn’t have minded, so long as I could get some sleep.

Surprisingly, he was very good about not chewing on anything. In fact, he didn’t make any messes at all.

What he did was become extremely depressed that he was stuck out in the cold, desolate, people-abandoned land known formerly known as the living room.

Here is a photo of Max and the DragonMonkey in the living room during the day:

Here is the living room at night, as it appears to Max:

Apparently, without humans the living room is a barren wasteland.

Apparently, without humans the living room is a torturous, depressing place to be.

Apparently, without humans, the only way you can survive the desperate, frightening feeling of being abandoned in the living room is to SIGH.

A lot.

Big, deep, gusty, riddled-with-depression SIIIIIIIIIIIGHs.

Seriously, how do you yell at a dog for sighing? You can’t, really, especially when they’re as dumb as Max is. All you can do is hope for it go away.

So I did that. I lay in my bed, pressing my pillow over my head, and listened to the symphony of noises that Max made all night long.

Tick, tick, tick, tick! (<— the enthusiastic sound of his nails on the hardwood floors as he approached our bedroom door. I try to keep them trimmed, but they grow at an absurdly fast rate.) Pause. (<— I swear I could actively hear him STRAINING to hear the sound of us waking up.) SNIIIIIIFFFF SNUUUUUFLE SCHLUUUFFF SNIFFFF. (<— the sound of him sniffing beneath the crack of the door, making sure we were still in there.) SIIIIIIIIIIGH. (The sound of him sinking into a depression. Apparently Mistress Becky and that guy who follows her around were still in the bedroom. But the door was closed. That must mean that they don’t love him. At all. They must hate him. They’ve abandoned him. The whole woooorld has abandoned him. He’s all alone, now. Forever. He’ll probably get eaten by wolves, but it won’t really matter, because he has no reason to live anymore.)

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. (<—the slow, melancholy sound of him returning to The Barren Wasteland Formerly Known As The Living Room.) Once there, he would completely ignore the $50 dog bed with its orthopedic mattress and fluffy cover. Who can sleep on a comfortable bed when there's no point in even living anymore? SIIIIIGH.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick (<— the sound of him making about 37 circles as he tries to fluff up the hardwood floors into something comfortable.) THUMP! (Flopping down onto the floor.)

SIIIIIGH.

Pause.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

Pause.

Realize the floor is actually uncomfortable. Perhaps he didn’t circle enough.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, FLOP! SIIIIIIIIGH!

I raise my head off the pillow, hopeful at the 30 seconds of silence from the living room. Sleep! At last! I turn over to my side, and steal back some of the covers from The Bean.

The sound of me rolling over echoes into the living room like a gunshot.

Tick, tick, tick, tick! Max trots down the hallway, enthusiastic. He heard something! He heard something in the cave that Mistress Becky has hidden herself in! He will be there to greet her as she comes out! She is testing his loyalty, and he will not be found wanting!

Pause. (The sound of his ear-muscles cracking and popping as he strains them.)

SIIIIIIIIIIIIIGH.

Repeat previous actions. ALL NIGHT LONG.

Does anyone want a noisy, tick-ticking, sighing cocker spaniel? Please?