Once again, I suckle at the 'blog's nourishing teat.

Ok, eww.

Once, while I was in the local mall (hell, the only mall) here in the Republic, I sat down with a lardy treat from Auntie Annie's Pretzels and Liposuction Hut and began people-watching, which essentially for me means "making up people's lives in my head to amuse myself." As I was devouring said treat, a small child walked up to his mother, who then sat at one of the little tables in the plaza. He reached up under her doubleknit and grabbed her breast, and then, as I sat there aghast, half of a piece of partially masticated pretzel hanging from my unhinged jaw, he unhooked her bra and fell hungrily on her ghastly pale, awaiting teat. For ten minutes he suckled and then, tenderly, rehooked her bra and smoothed her sweater down over her (noticeably smaller) breast, and then ran to rejoin his nasty, candy-sticky friends. The whole time this was happening I found myself unable to tear my gaze away from it, as though I was watching a Nigerian stoning. The mother read a copy of People Magazine the whole time and seemed utterly unruffled by the trauma that was being inflicted upon casual onlookers. There, in public, a gigantic white human breast being suckled upon by a voracious SEVEN YEAR OLD.

Now I'll get letters on this from all of you out there who feel that "children know when they're ready" and that "this sort of thing cements a bond" and "how is that different than if an infant was suckling?" Well, I'll tell you what. If the kid can ASK FOR A DRINK OF LIQUID HOT HUMAN MILK FROM YOUR BREAST, it's time for him or her to be eating solid foods. I shudder to think of all the tiny Norman Bates-types who are being spawned at this very moment. I can hear it now, as one of them walks away from being sentenced to death for murdering eighteen flight attendants and gnawing the flesh off their skulls: "My mommy let me drink from her 'til I was fifteen. She's so soft."

*sound of whiskey being chugged directly from the spout*

My new position begins on the 18th, a precious week and change from now. I am currently resisting the urge to "nest" in my new office, because a) I haven't actually transitioned yet from the Front Desk and b) I want my coworkers to respect me for as long as possible before they see my decoration style, which could most aptly be described as "ethnographic artifact Hiroshima." I've briefly toyed with the idea of bringing my framed poster of Edward Gorey's Gashlycrumb Tinies in, but I hear the food in asylums is simply wretched. My nekkid-above-the-waist Indonesian mermaid might raise an eybrow or two, as would my terracotta Aztec mask with a human skull in its maw. Once the decision is made, though, you can be sure that I will provide those of you who still read this (despite what would seem to be my betrayal of your loyalty) with color photographs.

In a month and a week, I leave the sanctity of the Republic for my new boy-lair up in Greenwood. I'm already feeling a little wistful, even though I will be here in town five days a week in the heart of campus, delivering internationals to their makers. What gave me pause, though, is that in the span of ten minutes, Indiana went from being a place I live in to being my home. Sure, Maine will always be home, but now it will be a home I visit and not a place to ultimately return to when everything here is done. It's a little rough getting used to that idea, but in the end, this is what's best for me - and for the people in my life. I will miss it. Mostly, though, I will miss mocking ridiculous, pompous tourists who come to Maine to "rusticate" and who treat the "colorful locals" as if we have extra chromosomes and have been drinking undistilled airline fuel. Defecating on their things while they are out buying blueberry scented candles and lobster plush toys is a particular moment of Zen for me, each and every time I do it.

More 'blogs to follow, my lambs. I swear it on the festering forelock of Nicodemus. (Movie name?)

I remain, as ever,

Domonic