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Oh, mercy.  Alicia did say that since the questions were up to the interviewer, said interviewer could make them as nice or as evil as s/he wanted them to be. And yet...I went ahead and sent a comment to orionoir, even though I know him well enough to know better than that.  Sure, pally, I said, go ahead and interview me.

Well, a deal’s a deal.  Here is the deal, in the form of rules of the game:

1 - Leave a comment, saying you want to be interviewed.
2 - I will respond; I’ll ask you five questions.
3 - You’ll update your journal with my five questions, and your five answers.
4 - You’ll include this explanation.
5 - You’ll ask other people five questions when they want to be interviewed.

1. in excruciatingly precise detail, please recount the plot, theme, pov, setting, grammar, style and special effects of your last sexual fantasy. include an endnote discussing your choice of font, its history, and a general overview of all antecedent and descendant fonts.

Define “last sexual fantasy.” I seem to be having a different one about once every seven minutes.  Let’s see...there was the one with Ewan McGregor on the uptown 4 train—no, wait, that was at dinner...there was the one with Johnny Marr hiding in wait for me under my desk, positioned strategically in front of my ergonomically correct chair...no, no, that was a lover I had who bore a striking resemblance to Johnny Marr...dammit...at any rate, the grammar was correct for blank verse, the style was both rococo and baroque (and if it ain’t baroque, don’t fix it, rimshot), and special effects were designed by Len Hapgood’s Kost-U-Less Flash Animation Emporium.  Font is known as “that nifty default font from TypePad, but would have been Garamond if only I knew how to spell it.”

2. did at least one of your parents have higher hopes for you than seems to be the case? explain just why things have been such a big fucking disappointment; assign blame on others whenever remotely possible.
No, not at all.  My parents groomed me to be the first woman justice on the Supreme Court, and as soon as I save enough box tops to pay for Harvard Law School, then nothing can stop me from...what...really?...are you sure? (crestfallen) Um...*this* is a big fucking disappointment, and I blame Sandra Day O’Connor and Ruth Bader Ginsburg for squashing the dream.

3. are other people concerned about your a) drinking, b) smoking, c) sexual practices, d) eating, e) hairstyle, f) fertility, g) lack thereof, h) complexion, i) drug use, j) driving, k) laziness, l) workaholism, m) gambling, n) housekeeping, o) parental disciplinary failure, p) lawn, r) internet use, s) lowlife friends, t) lack of friends, u) inability to cook a turkey, v) pigheaded political beliefs, w) cholesterol, x) body odor, y) pets, z) mental health? for q), simply answer question u) while pressing the pound key.
Yes.  Except for u).  I rock the house when I roast a turkey.  Nation-states crumble into dust, powerful men weep at my feet as they beg me to please, please tell them how I get the dark meat done to perfection without drying out the breast.  Ha.  As if I would give it away.

4. what were you doing during the minute which began at precisely 1:30pm eastern standard time (gmt -05:00) on thursday january 22nd 2004 and terminated at 1:31pm eastern standard time (gmt -05:00) on thursday january 22nd 2004? as much as you possibly can, reproduce the real-time second-by-second experience, footnoting all words, names, technical terms, and slang which may have been in your thoughts but which may not be readily comprehensible to a small child.
At 1:30 p.m. Eastern Standard Time on Thursday, January 22, 2004, I was on the telephone with a buyer for an unnamed beverage and spirits company, explaining to him why we couldn’t sell him never-to-biodegrade plastic cartons for ten cents apiece when it costs us five bucks apiece to make them, stopping only to let him ask me if I had always been a loathsome piece of spider puke or if it was a skill I picked up on the job, and to remind me once again that Satan himself must have delivered unnamed beverage and spirits company into my evil clutches.  At 1:31 p.m. EST on Thursday, January 22, 2004, I hung up the phone, removed the fork I had jabbed into my forehead from my forehead and reflected once again on why I didn’t take that job gunrunning for those angry French farmers who like to blow up McDonald’ses.

5. what’s your deep dark secret? get it off your chest.
*I* am Keyser Soze.  Shhhhhh.

6. assuming heterosexuality, what reasonably well-known same-sex celebrity would you sleep with if the fate of the world absolutely depended on you so sleeping with said celebrity? if homosexual, pick opposite sex celebrity on whom with-sleeping the world’s fate does depend. if bisexual, pick wellable-nun cyllable celibritty celebaty famous person who sleeps with nobody with whom you’d be forced to sit in the honeymoon suite of the houston airport hilton watching a cable tv movie about the love between a figure skater and a hockey player defying all odds in order to culminate in an on-ice symbolic consummation which miraculously does nothing to endanger a pg rating.
Quite a lot of assumptions you’ve got there.  Okay, assuming heterosexuality, it would have to be the woman in the video nasty I picked up for Red Wine, Chocolate and Porn night while Lloyd was out of town for two weeks.  What do you mean it doesn’t count if I don’t give her name?  I don’t know what her name was—dude, it was a video nasty!

7. have you ever slept with some girl/guy, sheesh, s/he could have been all hairy with bad teeth and who knows what kind of bugs, you first met on the internet? okay then, just how many? a paragraph each, please.
Define “slept.” Define “hairy.” Define “bugs.” Define “internet.” Okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  In order, “yes,” “seven...no wait, twelve...no, wait...do Olympic swim teams count as individuals or as a single unit?”, and “define ‘paragraph.’”

8. i don’t know what 8 is for.
But nine, nine, nine for the lost god, ten, ten, ten, ten for everything everything everything everything.  (That bitch took my money and went to Chicago...whoops, I’m skipping ahead a bit.)

9. if a really nice blog writing guy were to come up from behind and give you a big hug while you’re doing the dishes, would you blush all shades of a newly blossomed rose, saying “awwww” in a really endearing voice, okay, and then the nice blogging bloke were to be untying your apron ever so slowly and swoosh there it puddles on the shiny clean floor, and then—oh, never mind.
I tend to blush all shades of a brilliant ripe tomato, which tends to scare off really nice blog writing guys because they think I’m suffering from hypertension.  It really cuts into my fooling-around-whilst-doing-the-dishes-baking-the-bread-stirring-down-the-damsons time, damn the luck.

10. what is your understanding of string theory? how do you reconcile its inconsistencies with standard quantum physics, and to what degree do you feel that einstein’s model of relativity is nullified by subsequent work at both american and europaean supercolliders? please cite all relevant sources.
Everything I know about string theory can be encapsulated here. For ease of supercolliders, Mr. Simpson:Eric Idle::Adrian Wapcaplet:John Cleese.

11. so the blog writing guy, he’s dragged you by the hair to the bedroom, and there are sixteen tastefully arrayed scented candles (whatever was on sale… lots of patchouli, that would be your guess) but, whoa, look out, the laundry’s caught fire --
Anyone who would fill a room with patchouli candles deserves to lose all his laundry.  Whoops, I mean, (tenderly) it’s the thought that counts, baby…

12. what is it that most annoys you about other drivers? do you get this constant urge to mount a rocket-propelled grenade launcher on the roof of your car, wear an orange baseball cap with the name of a chainsaw company on it, and go cruising around looking for someone who’s just asking for it, well, do you?
What most annoys me about other drivers is their penchant for running over pedestrians like myself (although not actually myself, thankfully).  I get a constant urge to walk around with my keys in my fist so that I can scratch bloody murder out of paint job on the Focus of the the wet weed who turns into a crosswalk and misses me by a scant six inches.  This would be an admirable solution, were it not for the fact that my keys only weigh six ounces, while a Focus is just the slightest bit heavier.  Plus, said wet weed may not try to run you over with said Focus, but he may just decide to leap out of said Focus at the crosswalk and punch you in the mouth.  Not that I’m speaking from experience or anything.  Heavens, no.

13. sheesh, this laundry’s a total loss, what a smouldering mess. why don’t we go out for a cup of coffee somewhere?
Sure.  I know a place in Hanover that makes coffee so good it’d make you slap your own auntie.