you have to believe we are magic

Stomping home from work, I kept an eye out for a big stick with which to hit myself over the head all the while repeating “Shoulda sold the store. Shoulda sold the store.” Luckily or unluckily as the case may be, there were no suitable sticks to be found.

M and I had another thing. A talking thing. E fucking gads. A little piece of me dies off after each one of these talks. I feel like I’m standing on a stool which is resting on a step ladder which is propped up on a milk crate which is poised precariously on an umbrella that is balancing cautiously on a turtle. It might have been ok at first. A nice view of the lake maybe. A chance to get some sun. BUT I’D LIKE TO COME DOWN NOW, please.

This is the flavor of Dairy Queen soft serve: cold

The Canadian and I were quite the team today! Me venting, him making me laugh. Again with the compliments! I found myself chatting away with a little secret smile and a momentary hall pass from my life. There is an odd joy that comes with asking and being asked what your favorite sugary cereal is or who you’d go to a party dressed as if you had to go dressed as somebody. Cocoa Puffs and Olivia Newton John a la Xanadu, roller skates and all, I figured. Honeycomb and Judd Nelson in the Breakfast Club, he figured. Chunky peanut butter for him, creamy for me. The newness of it all still has the price tag on it.

J is applying to far far away graduate schools. I’m sad already. I wrote him an ode! Here it is:

He is a comic book wielding super-genius with mutant-like strength and girl-like empathy. He invents worlds where the young hero has to face great peril to save the worlds he’s invented. He can write like nobody’s business. His smile is dazzling. He’s a great catch. Sometimes the sentences that come out of his mouth are so beautiful and dizzying you wish you could muster the wherewithal to grab a pen, but instead, you’re dumbfounded and speechless and stuck in your chair. He is a superhero, defending the innocents from cruel words and dirty looks. He will look after you when you need looking after. He is a moral compass. He can leap tall buildings in a single bound. We are all better for knowing him.

YES. He really is that cool.

I feel kind of evil today. There are two possible jobs for me. The much better job requires something bad to happen to another person. The other one isn’t nearly as good and requires nothing bad to happen to anyone. Guess which one I want? I have sunk to a new low.

No good! NO GOOD!!

This is the name my step-dad gave to the squirrel that lives in my parent’s backyard and that happens to have unusually long ears: SQUIBBIT.

I believe that the spirit of my dead grandmother lives in my Magic 8-Ball. It seems to make perfect sense. She loved me like mad. I thought she could do no wrong. Objects suspended in liquid are easy to move. It all adds up to a make a super cool telephone to the unknown. But I rarely use it. All the big questions are too scary to ask. All the silly questions rarely rise to the occasion of me hauling my ass up the stairs to get the plastic ball of insight, much less bothering her for their silly answers. But today I mustered a little courage and gave her the chance to either freak me the fuck out or give me a little kiss on the forehead.

Me: Hi. Um. Hope you’re well. I miss you. I love you.

8-Ball: (silent)

Me: I have a real question this time.

8-Ball: (silent)

Me: Ready?

8-Ball: (silent)

Me: Will I be ok?

8-Ball: All signs point to YES.

he'll keep calling me, he'll keep calling me until i come over. he'll make me feel guilty. this is uh... this is ridiculous, ok i'll go, i'll go...

I am Cameron. In his car. On his was to Ferris’ house. Sick. Angry. Beating head against steering wheel. Getting out of the car and jumping up and down, kicking rocks. Getting back in the car. Turning the key.

If I knew how to insert a fucking picture here, I would. And it would be of Cameron. Angst ridden and cold stricken. My poster child. (M's good deed for the day: showing me how to post pretty pictures.)

Remember that big decision I had to make? WELL. Made it. Decided not to take the offer on the store. Decided not to sell it right now. Decided to stay super glued to M’s fucking left side. Am trying to pep talk my way into giving a damn if we are out of toilet paper or coffee or if we are even OPEN for god’s sake. It’s too early to tell if it’s working.

I wanted to sell it. I didn’t know how badly until I was on the phone leaving a voicemail message that said “we have decided to not take your offer.” I could literally feel myself beating down what little self-preservation instinct I have left. But M didn’t want to sell it. He thought the deal was sketchy. We have to agree on stuff like this, big fucking huge stuff like this. So YEAH. Didn’t sell it.

Why does no ALWAYS FUCKING ALWAYS trump yes?

My only escape plan is to get a JOB. ANY job apparently as I am on my way to accepting an offer that I know if I think about too much, I won’t be able to do. If I did think it through too much, I’m apt to sit in my car that first morning. Sick. Angry. Beating head against steering wheel. Getting in and out of the car. Yeah, you get the picture.

I think that with the help of a very friendly Canadian boy, I have come to realize something that may prove to be helpful. I AM A TWO YEAR OLD.

Here is what I think of most jelly beans: no good.

Here is what I think of any asian dish containing huge amounts of golden fried tofu: yes, please.

Here is what I’m wondering right now: Do I have to give Kurt Vonnegut credit for completely ripping off his trademark sentence structure?

I am mentally planning a “I Finally Weigh Less Than My Driver’s License Says I Do” party. I will make people wear nametags that either confess or boast their weight differential from that little piece of plastic that lets them get into bars. HELLO MY NAME IS +15 POUNDS! I will decorate the house like a DMV! I will give eye exams! I will make people wait in line to get beer! It will be a night of total debauchery that will FURTHER clinch my title as Worst Neighbor In The Condo Association! Thank you!! Thank you very much!

I can’t set a date for that little shin-ding just yet as I still weigh 3.5 pounds more than I claim to. But watch out! Because I don’t eat much anymore and when I do, it’s usually cheese puffs. And apparently cheese puffs are magic diet pills masquerading as baked puffy tubes coated in an orange powder that kinda reminds you of cheese!

Here is what I think of the new super skinny Anna Nicole Smith: yikes.

On Sunday, I flew between fits of pissed offness and being all cool and collected. And by cool and collected, I mean crying. The fits culminated in a huge, unorganized pile of M’s sheeit at the bottom of the basement stairs. He stopped by when I was calmer, and by calmer, I actually mean calmer this time. I told him that there was a very special object d’amour in that heap, and he should be careful to not throw it out, on accident anyway. He could throw it away on purpose if he wanted. He asked me why, other than the obvious reasons, I would include that little gifty in the sizeable pile. I said it was mainly due to the obvious. He said, “oh.”

Here is where I wanted to be a two year old:

I WANTED to pitch a fit. I WANTED to march down stairs, climb around on the mountain of clothes and DVDs and D sized batteries and fish out said object d’amour and throw it at him. I WANTED to stomp aforementioned object into little bits. I WANTED to come up with a plan so SHOCKING he would just absolutely HAVE TO SAY SOMETHING.

!!!!

But nope. I did none of the above. Instead, I was stoic. And by that I mean I was just crying enough for my eyes to be glassy.

I babysat today. No poop or spit up made it onto me. The mark of a good afternoon.

I want to write haiku but I’m having a hard time summing up the situations I find myself in lately to a mere 17 syllables. ESPECIALLY when I want “fucking fuckety fuck you” in every one. That gets to be pretty limiting.

Here is what I think of journal entries that drag on and on for 20 pages: the end.

yeah. not QUITE as funny today. but still funny.

The adventure that M and I embarked on last night, fueled by sleep deprivation and THC, yielded this little gem of a story. We took turns writing. "Enjoy."

---------

Once upon a time there was a boy frog named Gipetto and he had a little pet lambchop named Suzie. He had received Suzie as a gift from his now defunct grandma, Ester. Lamchop said to Suzie Hey little Suzie. I really like your ball, can we go out to the Jungle and have a safari?

Not knowing how to respond to Lambchop’s request for a safari, suzie stared blankely at Lambchop. Her sheep like black eyes burrowing into his flesh. Her gaze was unstoppable and Lambchop started to look around for an exit sign. There’s that sign you’re looking for said Lammie to Sue. It’s not the exit sign like the one you were looking for, but it’s a better thing to look for. It’s the entrance to Hardees!

The smiling star in a cowboy hat beckoned them inside. HEY suzie, yelled lambchop, isn’t this where Gipetto works? Suzie screamed with gleeeee, “YES, I do think it IS the Hardees that Gipetto works as a French toast stick operator.” They smiled wide smiled and scanned the restaurant in hopeful search for their best friend.

In his spare time, while not operating French toast at Hardees, Gipetto carved beef ventriloquist dolls and one came to life. When he built this one beef ventriloquist doll this one time, it came to fuckin’ life and shit. When the beef ventriloquist doll came to life, you could always tell it was lying because his nose would grow into a sausage link. The first thing the doll said was “HI – I LIKE YOU!” and then his nose grew into a sausage llink

Gipetto exclaimed “WOW, I would like to have THAT for breakfast!”

The beef ventriloquist doll (BVD for short), took issue with that. As we all know BVD’s have nasty tempers! He held out his licorice twist arms and took aim. With a flick of his Mike and Ike fingers a sticky net of finely woven petal pink cotton candy coated Gipetto. He stood triumphantly, proud on his hotdog legs with mustard socks and shoes make out of bubble gum wrappers.

He jumped on Gipettos head and made two mustard dots. You see – mustard socks are when you dip your feets in big ol jars of Mustard from Sams club. His BVD trunk exploded into Gipettos face and Gipetto said “ooooooooooooooh boy. That a might big pickle we in! Eyes gonna has to go to work to get some more beef now to rebuild your little mustard sock wearing trunk! Eyes have to bring Lambshop and Po Little Suzie wit me so weez can all carry some o dat beef! Dat’s a lot of beef, muthafuckas!”

He then looked around at this predicament. And quickly invited his friends Pita Bread and Cucumber and Lambchop and Tangy Sauce over. Once all there he yelled out happily “Who wants gyros?”

The End.

good bye to sandra dee

I am a dangerous mix of no sleep, 3 cups of coffee, 2 beers and a slice of banana cream pie… and the night is still young.

Watch out!

Tonight started with a happy hour. Every once in a while I’ll field an invitation to tag along from my old co-workers. And while I never took them up on it when I worked there, ironically, I go along now.

My old boss was in tow. He and I are kindred spirits. We get each other. It wasn’t always that way. I use to be terrified of him. I remember being all shakey with my stomach in knots whenever I had to deliver some kind of proof that I actually DID something around there to collect my pleasantly plump paycheck. But eventually the nerves gave way to this understanding between us and we’ve lived happily ever after.

He could see that I am new now. My drinking and coy whisper in his ear that I’ve finally smoked pot and giggle like a madman when I’m high makes him smile and offer me a little something something, but then he remembers he has to go home and start his second shift as dad and husband soon. He tells me I’m a smart girl. That I’m welcome back. That there is a job for me. That it’ll all work out. And unlike when M or my mom or any other well meaning friend tells me those exact same words, I believe it this time. Because this time, it was said with an escape hatch. It came with a casual mention of a desk and a computer and health insurance and happy hours. A soft place for me to lay my head for a while.

I think I’ll take him up on it.

Leaving happy hour, I was, ironically, feeling more melancholy than the promised “happy.” My mind was lost in swirls of wondering why I had missed so many of these little get-togethers when I was part of the fold. WHAT WAS I THINKING?!? I was thinking that I was nothing much at all. I was plain jane me. Whip-up a casserole me. Drinking diet coke me. Watching Trading Spaces me. Afraid of people me. Consumed by my weight me. Happy on the outside me.

Thankfully, I am not that anymore. The girl I was and the girl I am are one in the same. Wholeness is the difference. I can be the girl at the bar with the easy laugh and I can be the girl who carries around a kick-ASS lasagna recipe in her head, too. I am not all one or all the other. I am a unique, weird and surprising balance of the two, thank you very much.

I don’t know how I would have ever gotten to this point if it weren’t for M and the terrible no good very bad summer. It makes the summer look not so very bad or terrible at all. But rather, worth it. Or at least kinda sorta worth it. Or at least not the WORST thing ever. That's something, right?

OH ALRIGHT, it's worth it. Gaaawd.

Take this afternoon. P came by, a good friend of M’s. I had met him way back, when I was a shrinking violet. Never said anything to him though. Friendly hellos, a nice to meet you surely - but that’s all. Nothing like today. Within 5 minutes we were sitting on the couches sharing weight loss revelations and how making the decision to think of your body as “good” changes your life. These are things I would have rather DIED than share with anyone 4 months ago. And here I was, smiling, eager and having a hard time shutting up because I had so much to say – and to a BOY nonetheless. DANG. I feel kinda proud of myself.

It’s nearly 10pm and I’m waiting on M to get back from a rehearsal dinner for a wedding he doesn’t much want to go to, much less be in. From his arrival on, we will surely embark on some sort of THC adventure where we most likely don’t even leave my room much less go to see the Midnight Evils at the Entry. We’ll fall asleep and not feel our feet and laugh at things that won’t seem NEARLY as funny the next day.

Oh! I hear his key in the door.

honky tonk blues

My escapist daydream is the south. A road trip in a VW convertible. It’s the middle of summer. Being outside is like breathing in a damp washcloth. I always have a sweaty shine about me. I only wear jeans and t-shirts. I stay in cheap hotels and steal the little shampoos. I eat breakfast in small town diners where the waitresses all call me “Sugar.” I look skinny and innocent. I am neither. I go to dive bars and drink beer with truck drivers and watch them try to pick up big haired blondes. I talk to strangers and sleep on people’s floors. I make eyes at the local boys and let their sleepy drawls talk me into most anything. I take polaroids of them, naked with mussed hair. I steal magnolia blooms from the front yards of fancy houses. I pick up hitchhikers and make them read me their journals in lieu of gas money. I smoke pot and do LSD with art school drop outs at back yard BBQs. I hang out in record stores and get myself on the guest list. I steal bread from well-lit gas stations to feed to birds. I smoke too much. I always go in the wrong direction. I never buy a map. I write about boys and music and how there are some parts of the south untouched by time. I listen to Hank Williams Sr. and the local oldies stations and The Replacements. I take pictures of trees that are so pretty they seem like paintings. I send them to friends via 24 hour Kinko’s. I spend days upon days wandering around New Orleans. I trick myself into thinking I’ll write a book one day. I never go home.

anyone wanna play tiddly winks?

I am in full avoidance of making a very big decision. Like right now, oh man, I should totally be thinking about it and making those lame-o lists of pros and cons that all the tv shrinks tell you to make when you have to figure something out and I should maybe even be on the phone with some trusted advisor hashing it through and ending the conversation with “thanks, I always feel better after talking with you.”

But nope. I’m journaling instead.

Let’s hear it for having something else to do! Thanks internet! Maybe I’ll even get high later! That’s SUPER productive!

The highlight of my day today was being flirted with by J. It’s the perfect kind of flirting – all brainy and well written. He’s a master wordsmith and can take a sentiment as simple and sweet as “you’re a cool girl” and make it into a 50 foot high flashing neon sign propped up on a hill in the busy part of town. He’d be dangerous if he lived here.

The other day I was asked the sweetest question I think I’ve ever been asked and it was by a 4 year old boy with perfect little kid teeth and curly brown hair. I wrote it up all fancy like:

I babysit two days a week. I carry an army green Modest Mouse tote bag decorated with tree branches and hummingbirds. I sing along to any song I know the words to, usually off key. I can invent a naptime story on the fly. I like to make up songs about room cleaning, booger sandwiches, eating the last bite of lunch and not waking up little sisters. However, I am no Mary Poppins. But Sam today, after watching that movie over the weekend, asked me in earnest if I could fly. And why I had never shown him.

Awwww.


There is a dead squirrel in the yard. It’s been there for over a week easy. Initially it was fun to joke about running him frantically up to the vet yelling about how he hasn’t touched his peanuts in DAYS. Or how it was my one and hopefully only opportunity to get that upright squirrel in a 1950s apron holding a tray of chocolate chip cookies for my mantle via the fine art of taxidermy. Now he’s more like a 3D rug. All skinny with nothing left inside him. He’s been rained on, too. I have to think that helped move his decomposing along. I keep writing a haiku about it in my head, but don’t get anywhere with it. Something about how squirrels aren’t so cute once they’ve been dead for a week or so – and that’s a lot of syllables so it makes for a tricky haiku.

This is my most rambling journal entry EVER. Maybe I’ll win a prize!

Tomorrow the ad is in City Pages for my more public less personal journal. Yikes! It’s weird to think that other people, TOTAL STRANGERS, are going to read that. Yet, I want them to read it. Writing is an odd art. So intensely personal and often times clearly communicated. It’s unlike music or art where there is usually more sway in the interpretation. But I guess it’s like them all the same, too. Language is just as vague as colors and notes. It’s also like music or art in that it wants an audience. Writing away for years on end without another set of eyes gleaming meaning from your scribbles seems lonely. I want to be read just like a band wants to play live. The band gets to have more fun though.

SO if you want to pop in and see if I'm getting flogged or adored - the address is http://sugarsticky-girl.blogspot.com. It's pretty much this journal without all the angst. Enjoy!

we thought the phrase "pancake sammich" was REALLY funny, too

WOW. This week has been kinda sucky. Mainly icky stress due to the tornado that I live in. The bright side – it’s SUNDAY and that means the week is officially over and if there is one thing that I know for sure right this second its that next week could not be any worse. It just can’t. Seriously, it’s not even possible. WHEW! THANK GOD! HALLELUIAH! HIGH FIVES FOR EVERYONE! Could someone please cue Barry Manilow’s I Made It Through The Rain, please? I’d like to sing and sway along to that right about now.

To cheer myself up, I got the hell outta dodge (in a rented Chevy nonetheless) and headed for Wisconsin to visit my parents this weekend. I felt like I could breath there and I don’t think I even knew how much I needed that until I was sitting on the deck with my mom getting tipsy off these crazy strong sea breezes with lots of ice served up in Green Bay Packer mugs. Ahhh, home.

After waaaaay too much cheesy bread and pizza, we talked some about my desire to see squirrels, chipmunks, mice and other furry woodland creatures in sweaters. Striped ones for squirrels. Autumn colored cardigans for chipmunks. Argyle for mice (obviously!) Maybe even little tubular polka dotted ones for friendly garden snakes who are the perfect shade of bright green. (hi A.)

It was PROBABLY the THC talking, but my mom and I thought that while furry woodland creatures would never recognize the benefits of donning the little sweaters I would like to knit for them, they may see the benefit in taking a tiny patchwork quilt back to their quaint log cabin houses. A little something to lay on top of the crunchy dry leaves and pokey twigs to make them all soft and comfy. OH, we laughed and laughed…

and then bought all the stuff I’d need to make one today before I left!

It’ll be my special little fall project. When done, I’ll leave it at the base of a stately oak tree surrounded by peanuts with a little note pinned to it letting them know it’s up grabs and to send me a photo of the kids all curled up in it if they can, please.

I’ll get on that as soon as I finish my paint by number.

The drive home was nice. I like to drive. I listened to a lot of Simon and Garfunkel, a healthy dose of The Replacements (I think they are my official road trip band,) and about 45 minutes of TV theme music. I thought about my life here and what I want to do with it and I balanced it out with thinking about how I’ve never eaten a Funyun when I wasn’t going at least 55mph.

Nice to be home, kinda. Nice to just be.

happy haikoo!

Labor Day weekend away at a cabin in the middle of near-nowhere with M inspired these little ditties. Just thinking of it makes me feel small and awe-filled of how beautiful trees can be and how quiet can be the best music of all sometimes. Hokey? YEAH. But it was really that nice.

somewhere inside me
a little piece is missing
left at the cabin

---------

whirlwind slips away
as the waves wash over the rocks
good-bye to summer

--------

little red cabin
plopped down in-between birch trees
don’t want to go home

--------

quiet except for
the crickets and the water
near sleep, holding hands

--------

crazy messy hair
wild over the pillows
hard not to kiss him

---------

sitting on the dock
neighbor’s fireworks make up
for missing the 4th

---------

holding his stomach,
“it must be all the bacon.”
one pound in three days

---------

the quiet squeaks when
his hand moves, quick, down the neck
perfect imperfection

---------

rain beating the roof
awoken by the thunder
i reached for your hand

twirling twirling

My life is coming undone. All the duct tape, pipe cleaners, craft gauge wire, sticky tape, licorice ropes, twist ties, twine, ribbon and silly putty that I have used to patch up holes and hold loose ends together is getting weathered and is in need of replacement. The icky part is that I have used up my supplies and have nothing sticky or stringy to employ to the task. So what now?

I dunno.

I know some stuff. I can start there, I guess.

I know the facts of the situation. M decided at some point that this life, our life, was not what he wanted just right now and that a life with K was. So he left me. Had a 6 week tryst with her. Moved in with her. Decided his relationship with K was too much for him to deal with, too. So he cooled it with K. Sill lives there though. Isn’t as hot on her as be was before due to unforeseen snapiness and immaturity. BUT he still hangs out with her and stuff. So go figure. He wants us to be friends. So we hang out too. We kiss and hug and have sex, which supposedly he doesn’t do with her. We have “feelings” for each other. There is still love between us. I know I still love him, although as I write this I wonder what I’m thinking. And now all this icky financial crap is crashing down around me, all caused by this. And I feel like I’m drowning and that I am losing a lot of what I have worked for and he sits. He says he doesn’t want it to happen. Says he wishes it wasn’t happening. But in the end, doesn’t do anything to change it or help me or stop it. And so I get mad and hurt. And I eventually get over it and we go back to being friends until the end of the month when all the bills come due again and there isn’t anything to pay them with. Rinse, lather, repeat.

So that is what I know.

Now what do I do?

My mom says I have two choices and she is quite tired of hearing me lament about them. It’s a classic rock and a hard place scenario. I can choose to stay in this drama induced fish aquarium or I cannot. That’s it. I wish I had better choices. I wish I had the choice of only taking the good thats come from this and none of the bad. I wish I had the choice of jelly beans being legal tender vs. money (just for me though) and the mortgage company, condo association, electric company, IRS and friends would all be HAPPY to accept a big bag of jelly beans to clear all debts. YES, I wish I had that choice. I also wish I had the choice of donuts being good for you instead of bad for you, too. I think most people, especially bakers, would be SUPER happy if I was given that option. But alas. My choice is as stated above, and said exceptionally well by The Clash: Should I stay or should I go?

I dunno.

Seems I haven’t gotten very far.

Fabulous!

I can see why my mother is tired of me.

I SHOULD try to figure something out. I mean, it’s MY life after all and it seems silly to waste it hanging around for my heart to be broken. I should let the cowgirl in me out and be all FUCK YOU and head outta town. But then the hopeless romantic side kicks in and pokes memories of moments that were so perfect you’d have thought Hollywood had been involved. And then if THAT weren’t enough, it pokes the Mother Of All Mushy Memories – the “You will marry him.” moment. That one ALWAYS gets me. I mean, what the FUCK was that anyway?!? I was sooooo not looking to get married. I wasn’t sure I wanted that even. I barely knew him and THAT pops into my head at the same time as it pops into his head. That’s nuts, right?!? Totally NUTS.

(Ummmm, did y’all read my entry on childhood magical thinking? Yeah. That might be playing a small role here.)

But anyway! I mean, that IS weirdly romantic. It’s all destiny and fate and cosmic swirling happiness, isn’t it? It’s something that I had thought for sure only happened in books and movies. When it happened in real life… it was… AMAZING. It was like suddenly finding out that birthday wishes really DO come true and there was a stable in rural Wisconsin with all the ponies I’d wished for between the ages of 4 and 8 just waiting for my visit! A girl can’t just walk away from a moment like that. Can she? I mean really… can she??

Can I?

I dunno!

That sentence looks oddly familiar.

I read a quote today in a piece Garrison Keillor wrote. He was quoting Dante. “Dante said that the hottest place in Hell is reserved for those who in time of crisis remain neutral.” That made me feel better. NOT that I believe in hell or think that M is heading there at all. I don’t. But it made me feel better in a way that other people believe that inaction is sometimes the worst KIND of action. It’s nice to have some brainy scholars back you up every once in a while. M is all about the inaction. He doesn’t do anything to fix this mess he’s created, but worries about it just the same. I get pissy and demand he makes decisions and he shuts down and goes to band practice. I told him today that doing nothing is the same as doing something and it doesn’t let you off the hook. It counts. It really does count. And he better pack a lot of sun block if Dante is right.

SO.

Where does this leave me?

In the same stoopid spot I have apparently tethered myself too.

OH MY GOD. Am I turning into that girl who will ask herself questions OUTLOUD and THEN proceed to answer then as though being interviewed by some unseen newsperson?!?

YIKES! I am.

Must stop.

Must stop!!

OK. I was saying… I am in the same spot. Not willing to walk away 100%. Not willing to stick around 100%. I am so confused that I can’t even give out percentages or what the Vegas odds would be. If you are a betting person, put your money on the blue one. That’s the best I can offer.

I feel like I should make some kind of decision here. Take a stand! End with a few hundred eloquent words on why he is worth it, all When Harry Met Sally style. OR end it with a feminist manifesto on how men stink and fuck ‘em all, I’m off to be a lesbian. And NO you can’t video tape it, you pervert. But I got nothing.

I am meeting him for a few beer drinks this evening, after he finishes up band practice. So maybe I’ve made my decision to repeat, and am grabbing for the shampoo AGAIN. I dunno! I would like to know. But I don’t. And I guess that’s gonna have to be good enough for now.