Gotta love msn.com, replete as it is with handy articles about things like how to determine what you should be doing with your life. Based on the criteria of what consumes my thoughts, interests, and free time, I should be a professional, uh....(there really isn't a proper name for this, I think)...."relationship-haver". (I know, I was thinking "whore", too, but that oversimplifies it greatly.) Even my favorite toys suggest I was born to do nothing but start, stop, and perpetuate relationships, for better or worse, intentionally or un. Back when I was young and fanciful, I'd imagine little soap opera scenarios for my Barbie dolls in which they vyed for the affections of Ken, shallow and self-obsessed though he was. Ken's preening perfection -- or my perception of it at age 8 -- was such that I drew zits on his face with a black permanent marker to knock him down a peg (no kidding), but he was the only game in town, and my little plastic homegirls needed their lovin'. Sure, Han Solo eventually joined the ranks and bested Ken in everything but wardrobe choices, but he was devoted to Princess Leia, clumsily flat-footed and just as sartorially-challenged as he, so Ken remained the coveted prize amongst the 11" set. Haircuts, clothing changes, uneasy alliances, and access to the Dream 'Vette all revolved around the common and single-minded goal of turning one molded blonde head their way. Kind of fucked up for playtime, huh? And yet as an adult, using live dolls for my pantomiming pleasure, it seems normal -- expected, actually. Weird.