Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<





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Women, The Internet and You: Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites
Part I, Your Profile and Email

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?


"50 First Dates"






Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.

Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Find Federal Officials
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or Search by State

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Contact The Media
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Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)

Quasar
Hyperbole
Amenable
Taciturn
Ennui
Prophetic
Tawdry
Hubris
Ethereal
Syzygy
Umbrageous
Twerp
Sluice
Omnipotent
Sanctuary
Malevolent
Maelstrom
Luddite
Subterfuge
Akimbo
Hoosegow
Dodecahedron
Visceral
Soupçon
Truculent
Vitriol
Mercurial
Kerfuffle
Sangfroid




























 







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Highlights from the Archives. Some favorite Trillian moments.

Void, Of Course: Eliminating Expectations and Emotions for a Better Way of Life

200i: iPodyssey

Macs Are from Venus, Windows is from Mars Can a relationship survive across platform barriers?
Jerking Off

Get A Job

Office Church Ladies: A Fieldguide

'Cause I'm a Blonde

True? Honestly? I think not.

A Good Day AND Funyuns?

The Easter Boy

Relationship in the Dumpster

Wedding Dress 4 Sale, Never Worn

Got Friends? Are You Sure? Take This Test

What About Class? Take This Test

A Long Time Ago, in a Galaxy Far Far Away, There Was a Really Bad Movie

May Your Alchemical Process be Complete. Rob Roy Recipe

Good Thing She's Not in a Good Mood Very Often (We Knew it Wouldn't Last)

What Do I Have to Do to Put You in this Car Today?

Of Mice and Me (Killer Cat Strikes in Local Woman's Apartment)

Trillian: The Musical (The Holiday Special)

LA Woman (I Love (Hate) LA)

It is my Cultureth
...and it would suit-eth me kindly to speak-eth in such mannered tongue

Slanglish

It's a Little Bit Me, It's a Little Bit You
Blogging a Legacy for Future Generations


Parents Visiting? Use Trillian's Mantra!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Mod Hair Ken

Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other

2003 Holiday Sho-Lo/Mullet Awards

Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places

Come on Out of that Doghouse! It's a Sunshine Day!

"...I had no idea our CEO is actually Paula Abdul in disguise."

Lap Dance of the Cripple

Of Muppets and American Idols
"I said happier place, not crappier place!"

Finally Off Crutches, Trillian is Emancipated

Payless? Trillian? Shoe Confessions

Reality Wednesday: Extremely Local Pub

Reality Wednesday: Backstage Staging Zone (The Sweater Blog)

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

To Dream the Impossible Dream: The Office Karaoke Party

Trillian Flies Economy Class (Prisoner, Cell Block H)

Trillian Visits the Village of the Damned, Takes Drugs, Becomes Delusional and Blogs Her Brains Out

Trillian's Parents are Powerless

Striptease for Spiders: A PETA Charity Event (People for the Ethical Treatment of Arachnids)

What's Up with Trillian and the Richard Branson Worship?

"Screw the French and their politics, give me their cheese!"


















 
Mail Trillian here





Trillian's Guide to the Galaxy gives 5 stars to these places in the Universe:
So much more than fun with fonts, this is a daily dose of visual poetry set against a backdrop of historical trivia. (C'mon, how can you not love a site that notes Wolfman Jack's birthday?!)

CellStories

Alliance for the Great Lakes


Hot, so cool, so cool we're hot.

Ig Nobel Awards

And you think YOU have the worst bridesmaid dress?

Coolest Jewelry in the Universe here (trust Trillian, she knows)

Red Tango

If your boss is an idiot, click here.

Evil Cat Full of Loathing.

Wildlife Works

Detroit Cobras


The Beachwood Reporter is better than not all, but most sex.



Hey! Why not check out some great art and illustration while you're here? Please? It won't hurt and it's free.

Shag

Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto

Jotto




Get Fuzzy Now!
If you're not getting fuzzy, you should be. All hail Darby Conley. Yes, he's part of the Syndicate. But he's cool.





Who or what is HWNMNBS: (He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken) Trillian's ex-fiancé. "Issues? What issues?"







Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.


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Reading blogs at work? Click to escape to a suitable site!

Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains





























Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero

 
Sunday, January 15, 2006  
So, confession time.

I've been experimenting with drugs.

Controlled narcotics.

Okay, fine, I finally tried taking the prescriptions my doctor gave me last Fall after the accident. I have a history, a lifetime history, of, um, well, a sleep problem. The problem is that I don't sleep. Because I can't sleep. Because I have difficulty shutting off my mind, relaxing enough to sleep.

The pain and the health problems and the regular stress in my life culminated in some issues. I wasn't healing as quickly as I should. My doctor theorized that my lack of sleep, real rest, was an issue.

And so it came to be that I was legally prescribed that oh so exotic and celebrity endorsed mix of pain and sleeping pills. Erm, "medication." Now. I have just as much of a rock star fantasy as the next person.

But.

I have this thing about not wanting to take medication unless I am sick and really need it. Pain, sleeplessness...those are not exactly desperately ill and in need of medication issues.

I'm much more of a deal with the cause rather than treat the symptom kind of person. Sleep aids and pain medication masks the symptoms but does nothing to resolve the issue. This is just how I feel about myself and my body. Other people can take whatever medication they want for whatever reason they want. If it works for them, great, I'm happy for them. This is just my outlook in regard to my own body and personality.

But this sleeplessness thing is causing problems. Physical problems. I mean, it has caused problems in the past. A lot of problems, actually. I wish I could just go to sleep. I envy people who just, well, sleep. I have no recollection of ever sleeping 8 hours straight. Apart from a few times when I was sick. Once I had pneumonia and I lost three days of my life. I semi-remember waking up a few times, but not clearly. So I suppose, yes, since I know I lost three days of my life I can recollect sleeping a solid 8 hours when I had pneumonia. But generally I feel proud if I get four solid hours. That's an achievement for me. A huge deal. My nightly routine is usually more like an hour. Wake up, stay awake for an hour and a half, sleep for another hour or two, wake up, stay awake for an hour, sleep for 45 minutes, wake up, get up, begin the day. Basically I take a few naps during the night hours.

Anyway. This has been going on for well, hmmmm, yeah, well, all of my life.

So I never gave much thought to how it effects my health. I mean, I knew it wasn't healthy and I try really hard to get more sleep, but I never thought about it impeding say, recovery from an illness or injury.

So I gave in and tried sleeping "medication" And sometimes when I'm in a lot of pain I break down and take pain "medication." Which also helps me sleep. Interesting how much easier it is to sleep when I'm not in pain.

And you know what? I've been sleeping for 6 - 7 hours straight. Which is really cool. I am so proud of myself about this. This is the first time I've felt normal in some aspect of my life in, well, ever. Those of you who sleep 8 hours a night cannot understand. You have no idea what it's like to not be able to sleep. You have no idea how long nights are when you cannot sleep. Every night.

But, apparently like everything else in my life, there's a catch. Sleep for more than an hour at a time and guess what happens? Dreams. That's what happens. Vivid, long dreams. Dreaming should either be pleasant or terrifying. That's my opinion. If you're going to dream, dream big. Escape reality to a really happy place, or face your issues with big terrifying manifestations. Otherwise they're just idle daydreams you're having while you sleep. If you're going to give your subconscious 8 hours of free rein to think about whatever it wants, it might as well really let go and pull out all the stops.

Even though I don't often sleep for more than a few hours at a time, I've had some really, really scary nightmares. One recurring nightmare, the same exact waking up in horrified gasping panic nightmare since I was a kid. That's one of the reasons I don't sleep much. If I sleep long enough and hard enough to have a dream, sooner or later I drift into The Nightmare and I wake up and can't go back to sleep.

Paging Dr. Freud, Dr. Freud, you're needed on the third floor...

Right. So. Sleeping and pain pills. Me and Keith Richards. What's next? Maybe I'll start dating 14-year-olds.

But based on the dreams I've been having since I started sleeping, it doesn't appear that I'll be letting loose my inner rock star any time soon.

Because instead of salacious wild orgy filled pleasant dreams or face your demons scary monster nightmares, I keep dreaming about Bill Murray. Yes. Saturday Night Live, Scrooged, Ghostbusters, Caddyshack Bill Murray. Except he's more of the Lost in Translation, Razor's Edge Bill Murray in my dreams. Not very funny, quite tragic, and mainly woeful.

I have nothing against Bill Murray, in fact I quite like a lot of his movies. I have always thought him to be one of America's more talented entertainers. I was given some tapes of early Saturday Night Live and find I laugh the hardest at the sketches in which he appears. I'm more fond of some of his recent film work. I really enjoyed his performance in Lost in Translation. I even broke my rule about not caring about the Academy Awards and thought he should win. The Academy is stupid and overrated anyway.

The Life Aquatic was great, you know, really great. I think a lot of people just didn't get the depth he brought to the role. People don't get subtlety. A lot of people (especially the men I've met lately) have short attention spans and don't like to have to think. They're probably more into Caddyshack. Don't get me wrong, Caddyshack makes me laugh, too. But it's too bad people don't recognize he's grown and evolved. Broken Flowers. Yes. I'm one of of the 143 people who saw that movie at the theatre and I really liked it. I sat there thinking, "Bill Murray's great! Why don't people recognize how great he is?"

So yes, I guess, thinking about it, I am a fan. Not a fanatic fan. Just a person who appreciates his talent and enjoys his work. Funny, I never thought about that until now.

Let me be clear on that point: As much as I enjoy his performances on screen and television I'm not obsessed with him or his life or really anything about him at all. I'm sure he's swell. He seems swell. Here in Chicago people say good things about him. But I just don't care about him apart from how he entertains me onscreen. Not that I wish bad things for him or that I wouldn't care if he was suddenly gone. I would care. I would miss him. I mean, I would miss his performances. I would miss his talent and the way he makes me laugh. But it wouldn't be a personal tragedy for me. Sorry, Bill, but, I'd get over it.

If I were a betting woman, I'd put all my money on celebrity dreams on someone like Pierce Brosnan or John Depp or the Keno brothers or even someone like Tom Baker to have recurring roles in my subconscious escapades.

But no.

Bill Murray makes nightly visits to my internal entertainment module.

And no. They're not "those" kinds of dreams. Just dreams. And he's in them. And they all have to do with him and a continuing litany of bad things happening in his life. In most of these dreams we seem to be pals. Frequently there are other people around, often a woman I presume to be his wife. (I don't even know or care if he's married in "real" life. I mean, you know, I guess I care if he's married because being married is a thing normal successful people are and I guess I hope he's normal and successful, but I don't really care in the sense that it makes no difference to me or the way I feel about him as an entertainer.) Anyway, these dreams are all on the up and up, no hanky panky.

The few hours of sleep a night I get are sacred to me. And it's not that these are nightmares. But, he's kind of a downer in these dreams. And I'm generally a caring person, particularly where my friends are concerned, so in these dreams where we're pals and he's having problems I end up worrying about him. And I wake up feeling tense and stressed out over the anxiety I feel during these dreams.

I'm truly sorry if he's experiencing difficulty in his life. I'm sure it's not easy having people expecting him to always be funny or clever or wanting him to do the lounge singer guy. People are kind of stupid when it comes to expectations. (Further case for removing all expectation from life.) But I really need stress free sleep. I have a lot of stressful situations in my own real life. My real family and friends have problems which cause me concern for them and their well being. I don't need someone else laying their burdens at my door, or in this case on my pillow.

I'm not accusing him of mind control. I'm just asking him to sort out his personal life so I don't worry about him in my dreams. I don't really care if he's in my dreams, even though I'd prefer John Depp or Pierce Brosnan, as long as he's not a downer. He doesn't have to make me laugh, he just needs to stop being the perpetual mopey buzz kill he is in my dreams. I don't worry about him in real life (sorry, it's just pointless) but this intense stress and worry over him while I'm sleeping is making me wake up cranky and irritable. Well. More cranky and irritable than usual.

Last night, for instance, I fell asleep on the couch. Rollers in hair, poodle pajamas, fuzzy socks, you get the idea. The next thing I remember I was having a dream wherein Bill, the above mentioned wife-ish woman, another woman and myself were having dinner in a swanky restaurant. Everyone was dressed really well. I was in my poodle pajamas, fuzzy socks and hair in rollers. No one seemed to notice or care. The conversation at the table was low and reverent. I don't remember any of the actual conversation but we were all feeling sorry and sympathetic for Bill and he was trying to be okay but we all knew he wasn't okay. The lighting was dim, kind of candle lighty and at one point I looked at him, in my dream it was a super macro of his left face, and his eyes were all red and watery like he was crying. And that upset me because obviously he was upset and it was sad and all that. Next thing I remember is us in the same or similar restaurant dancing. Slow dancing. He in his nice suit, me in my poodle pajamas and fuzzy socks. Which, by rights, should have made me laugh. It should have made him laugh. But it didn't. I don't remember much, but I remember feeling him close and being very surprised that he felt weak, frail. I thought I could just pick him up and carry him off the dance floor. I knew he was upset and he started to get trembly and I led him off the dance floor and got him a drink and we were all trying to protect him from being seen in that upset state. I was trying to figure out a way to nonchalantly get him out of there unnoticed and I was all tense about it. Then I awoke to find myself all tensed up and stressed. I'd been grinding my teeth so hard my jaw hurt, my hands were clenched into tight fists and I had a really bad headache. See what I mean? These are not just any old dreams. These are really stressful and intense dreams. About Bill Murray. And his problems.

One night last week I dreamt I was at his house. Frankie was there, too. And the wife-ish woman and some guys. I was in my pajamas and my hair was a mess, pretty much how I probably looked in my real bed at the time. And my stuffed poodle who in real life is perched by my pillow was sitting on the counter in Bill's kitchen. We were all just talking, you know, I don't know, talk. I don't remember the conversation. But Bill was all intense and mopey and we were all trying to make pleasant conversation and trying to act normal. The phone rang, it was like in a movie, a long dramatic still shot of the telephone sitting there ringing, Bill answered it. We all tried to busy ourselves and not intrude. Then he hung up and told us his brother died. He was really upset. We all felt bad but apparently it was expected. We tried to console him. I took his hand. It was shaking. I remember exactly how it felt. Next thing I remember we were swimming. Nothing weird or kinky, just swimming. As in swimming laps. I woke up and realized I'd been crying. My eyes stingy and my cheeks were wet. I'd been actually crying. I dunno, Bill. I dunno. I usually only get upset like that for my real family and friends. This is a first for me.

Now. It's possible these dreams are manifestations of my inner turmoil. I'm projecting my repressed/suppressed/regressed feelings onto Bill Murray. Rather cavalier thinking, but I'll consider any possibility if it will help end this bout of night stress.

Let's explore the projection theory. Why Bill Murray? Why would I project my repressed feelings onto a middle aged guy known best for his on screen antics and glib mirth? My issues are really more suited for a younger Meryl Streep. Troubled, deep, intense and generally not fun to be around. The projection theory doesn't hold.

The other possibility is that Bill Murray symbolizes someone or something, some unresolved or stressful issue. Gee, really? Do ya think so, Dr. Freud? Because I have no unresolved or stressful issues in my life and that just makes no sense.

But again I ask, why Bill Murray? Why not, oh, I don't know, John Depp? A little eye candy with my emotional agony. Or someone tragic like or given my recent narcotic foray, why not Jimi Hendrix or John Belushi? And here's something: Why a man? If this is all projection and symbolism, why a man? Why not Meryl Streep or some Lifetime network sweetheart like Stockard Chaning or Nancy McKeon? The obvious answer is that I'm either blaming my issues on men, or, projecting them onto a man so men, or at least a man can have a less than pleasant existence. Neither sounds like how I think, you know, in real life. But, taking out my actual conscious thought process, the former seems plausible, the latter just seems vindictive and I'm not really a vindictive person. At least I don't think I am.

The last possibility which occurred to me today, as I tried to sort out, "Why Bill Murray?" might have something to do with Groundhog Day. Which is just a few weeks away, now that I think about it even more. Perhaps I've got some weirdo thing about the repetition/boredom/stuck in a rut/angst issues like Bill Murray's character had in Groundhog Day. My life does feel like one long repetitive litany of the same problems cloaked in different costumes. I keep trying to move forward but the same problems keep me firmly planted where I am. Gee, that's just swutting brilliant. For that I spent a lifetime wishing I could sleep well enough to have dreams?

Man, I don't know how you people who regularly sleep and dream deal with this.

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10:41 PM

 
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