My father is now officially married again. Huzzah and huzzah, hopefully they are very happy together, and I suspect they are, on some level.

The wedding was typical of such affairs: Long and Catholic, with the party afterward containing plenty of upper- and upper-middle-class white privileged people standing around in immaculate clothing drinking expensive champagne and eating expensive hors d'oeuvres. Very posh and ultimately very dull. There may be photos of myself in a tuxedo somewhere, but they are not to be used for blackmail.

Your kittens have reached that wonderful point in life where their playful attempts to engage in inappropriate and taboo relations with each other have become dangerously close to producing actual results. In the interest of my sanity and their health, they will need to be sterilized posthaste. Spay surgery costs $75 and neutering costs a mere $25 (I'm quite sure this is some form of sexism). I have made the appointment for this Friday; if you can't afford to pay before then, let me know. I have no trouble footing the bill as long as I'm reimbursed later.

I am starting chemotherapy next month, and as I have planned, I will be shaving my head this month in order to avoid concerns or suspicions about the whole thing. I don't look forward to it, and I know Mary doesn't either. I enjoyed how energetic I felt during the week away, without radiotherapy, and now that it has resumed, I feel so ... heavy and dull, like an old gray stone. I hate the impending sense of doom that seems to permeate everything, like life may end at the start of May. Who was it that wrote, "April is the cruellest month"?

Ah, that would be Tom. The peculiar fellow who has been strangely different in his coming to visit his kitten this past while. His spring break must have been exceptionally good. Either he has found happiness similar to my own or someone is slipping catnip into his coffee in the morning.

End tangent.

It has been a cruel month, and it has only just begun. I'm worried about Will. I'm also worried that people seem to be losing their heads and leaping to supernatural conclusions about the spate of disappearances lately when the threat is most likely dangerously more real. Mostly, I am worried about Will. Ari has already spoken to the police, however, so there is little more to be done except wait and hope.

On top of that, Mary had some sort of traumatic nightmare in Quèbec that had her shrieking in terror. I've never, ever heard such a sound before in my life, and I really would rather not hear it again if I can help it. She was very shaken when I finally managed to wake her up, and she wouldn't go into specifics, but it had to do with her mother. The death of her mother, I suppose. Some sort of relived memory.

Regardless, she was under the impression that it should not have happened and that she might need to try therapy again. I'm worried that it might have had something to do with pent-up stress, little of which having to do with that ... fiasco and much of which to do with the impending summer regimen. Sometimes I think it might be better if I separated myself from her so she wouldn't have to deal with this ridiculous cancer drama. Would that be better or worse in the long run? Things are not going to get easier for either of us. I don't know if I want her to see me deteriorate -- but the selfish part of me doesn't want to let go of this source of happiness, either. And she is a great deal of happiness in my life. I suppose it is a matter of whether or not the happiness I bring her outweighs the burden I impose.

My writing has taken an exceptionally dark turn lately. Black comedy. In all this, it seems to be the only constant (outside of the obvious female company), even improving in spite of its bleaker content. It isn't easy to concentrate on much else these days -- or perhaps I just don't want to concentrate on anything else too much.

Adieu and adieu, my friends, and a merry Spring Break to you. I am spiriting away my paramour and we are fleeing to Canada. If all goes well, we shall return with our new pet moose and a jar of maple syrup.

The Gag Fairy left me a gift on my doorstep recently. I was surprised to see it and more than a little amused.

[OOC Note: Here is a picture of the giant inflatable penis noted earlier to have been left on his doorstep by Ailey.]

It was brought into my home and very quickly made itself a rather prominent feature in several areas.

[Here are a series of pictures of the inflatable penis in different situations and places: being investigated by the kittens; sitting atop the kitchen island; laying on the couch with a plastic rose positioned at its head between its teeth and a glass of wine on the coffee table; peeking out from under the bed; held in a rather erect position on JB's crotch.]

Unfortunately, gifts can be abused, and in attempting to be ever the comedian and display this wonderful extension of ego, it met a very sad and abrupt end at the point of a pair of scissors.

[The penis lying limp on the living room carpet with a noticeable gash in its pointy region. Its eyes have been X'd out in Photoshop.]

The moral of this story: don't parade around and wave giant inflatable penises in your paramour's face while she is attempting to do homework.

Thus ends the chronicles of the enormous inflatable penis.

[One last photo of the penis, this time in a box with a lily laid on it as though prepared for burial.]

jb (1:21PM): Sitting in requisite math class. All I can think about are ropes and you.
jb (1:21PM): Even when you're not here, you are a tease.

Some days, the treatments seem more draining than others. It's getting to a point where I just don't want to get out of bed on treatment days. I don't imagine this is going to get any easier.

I wouldn't say that without her, I wouldn't be able to go on -- but she helps a great deal. Rehearsals are the other reason I find strength to get out of bed, and those classes that I am actually enjoying this semester. My writing has never been better, at least. I do have to fight the urge to stay up at all hours writing. I have to fight the urge to close myself off to the rest of the world, too. It's very difficult on some days. If I didn't love her so much, I probably would have holed myself up this week.

Maddy sent me an e-mail this morning. She seems to be struggling.

A bird.

I can't explain why it fits so well. It simply does.

The recent talk of illness is highly disturbing -- or rather the nature of the illness. Coughing up blood, fatigue, anemia? Claire has it and of course Mary is going to want to be around her, and I am going to fret constantly that she'll catch it. So sudden and so frightening.

I already understood what she must feel like sometimes with regard to my own illness. I really don't need this, too. She doesn't need it.

I don't need to keep thinking about it. I can panic if she starts showing symptoms.

Meanwhile, Jane is also sick and at the risk of catching it myself, I'm going to take her some soup tomorrow. She's done the same for me and it's only fair to return the favor.

Myself and my paramour are undertaking a project soon and it involves being culinary. As such, we need things with which to be culinary. In other words: Friends, Friars, college students, lend me your recipes!

She called it "home". It didn't even cross my mind to find that odd, which in and of itself is perhaps telling; what makes me a complete idiot is that, when it was spotlit, it made me happy.

Next, I will be writing "Mr. Jon-Baptiste Godwin" in the margins of my playwriting notes. (Because "Mrs. Mary Mullen" is probably the most hideous name created.)

Pah.

Louise called to inform me that the date for the wedding has been set for April 10th. I suggested they change it to the 1st for a twist of irony but she didn't seem willing. Le sigh.

Unfortunately, I only have one open invitation so the rest of you can't see this blessed event. This also means that the bachelor party will likely be held here the day before so I will be unavailable most of that weekend. Don't miss me too much.

It has come to my attention that the horror wrought by one Stephenie Meyer has sparked a new phrase/acronym: OME, short for Oh My Edward!

Because I am a thousand times cooler than any dazzling sparklepire tripe, and because I may or may not be the reincarnated Jesus, I propose a new phrase/acronym far more befitting our society: OMJB.

Discuss.

I think I missed something! Are we editing Rent to say that Joanne is actually straight? And did this edit state that Joanne falls for Benny? And kisses him? Backstage?

We are not amused.

On the bright side: Jane, if you are still having trouble getting your Joanne to stop kissing like a dead fish, try cracking a joke about Mormonism: The Musical.

Waking up with cock-to-cock contact makes the world a much kinder place.

... wait a minute.

I am the happiest man on the earth today. On this glorious holiday that celebrates love and adoration, I ventured to the place where my chérie works, took to one knee before her, and asked that question so many hopeless romantics have uttered and will continue to utter for many generations to come. And she accepted! Life could not be better.

Happy Valentine's Day.

P.S. The question, for the record, was, "Come to my house for dinner and a movie?" Mary and I are not getting married. This holiday is, quite frankly, completely and utterly ridiculous, but enjoy it anyway.

That was ... vivid.

I had a dream. In it, I was on a stage, performing. The lights were hot and bright and I was sweating. I could feel it trickling down my face (perhaps because, on awaking, I was drenched in it). I don't remember the exact play, but I recall going backstage after an exit and then there was a coughing fit. There was blood on my hand and in my mouth and suddenly there were a few others gathered around me, familiar faces that I knew and yet I can't recall them. All of them asking if I was all right. I insisted that I was fine and they urged me not to go on. I brushed aside the concerns and told them I was fine -- that others were depending on me for their bread. I went back onto the stage for more of the performance and as I was delivering a final monologue, I became overwhelmed by a coughing fit. I tried to laugh it off, but it was very violent. The curtain came down as I collapsed and the faces were around me again. As I drifted away, I woke up.

I could even taste the blood in my mouth, though thankfully there was none when I awoke. I can only imagine how much that would have worried Mary, how worrisome it might have been on a whole.

I'm not one to note dreams or nightmares -- but this one was so shockingly real, it seemed to bear mentioning. I wish I could put into words how incredibly vivid it all felt, but I am simply at a loss for words. Perhaps sometime when I am more awake, I can come back to it.

I am such a ridiculous sap. Truly.

And yet I don't care. It seems as though everything in the world is made better just by virtue of her presence. Pain and the inherent fatigue that seems to plague me constantly these days is made lighter, pleasure and happiness are amplified.

And even in my uncaring state, I fully realize that I am being a complete idiot. The above is true, I cannot deny it, but I snort and roll my eyes anyway. Jon-Baptiste is a fool, but blessed are the fools for they are the happiest in the most outrageous of times.

Waking up in her embrace may be one of the brightest moments of my day, at least it was today. Bringing her home from campus or finding her there when I return from work or classes is right up there, too. Hearing her sing in the shower, her things in the dresser drawer, her smile and laughter, her hands on my face -- these things are astoundingly wonderful and yet so simple in and of themselves.

I cannot deny having felt this before with someone else. Is it true love? I wouldn't know what that is. It's a silly phrase anyway, implying that there is only one sort of love that is superior above all the cheap imitations. It smacks of the same folly suffered by the hundreds of religions in the world that tout themselves as the only true way to spirituality. It's not as though she completes my life, like I have been missing pieces of the puzzle to my existence. But she has made it significantly better, and while it may not be the love to end all loves, it is warm and beautiful and has come from a most unexpected source at an equally unexpected time. And while I'm certain to make a complete fool out of myself, at least I'll be happy.