One of these days, I’ll fill you in on what the hell I’ve been up to. But I’ve just spent the last fourteen hours writing up thirty pages of an academic journal. The serifs on every character I type are giving my eyes digital paper-cuts. Forgive me if I’m a little burned out on journalling for the day.

So ... briefly, disconnected, and in no particular order:

I’ve made friends. I’ve partied. I’ve done lots of homework, and prepared some kick-ass papers and presentations. God help me, I think I might be acquiring "direction." My hands still smell like the onions I chopped for a Mediterranean stew I brought to a potluck Sunday night. I was on the receiving end for a demonstration of the term “dry-hump,” enacted for the benefit of a friend whose native language is Chinese. I’ve done so much emotional processing and purging that I cringe every time I hear the fucking word “intense,” which is even more overused than "random." I’ve attended drag shows and rock shows and roller derby bouts and midnight movies. I’ve walked the dog, and no, that’s not a euphemism, but I bet I could think up some dirty acts for which such a euphemism would be appropriate, though none of them would sound particularly sexy. I’ve started buttering my bread, which isn’t a euphemism either, but which in the literal sense is still a very liberating act for someone like me who used to fear spreadable fats like I now fear the terrifying right-wing television show “Seventh Heaven.” I’ve dressed up in a pretty red gown that seldom has occasion to leave its dry-cleaning bag, and dressed down in fishnets and boots which I could probably get away with wearing more often. I’ve spent a night on a sofa, burrowed under towels for warmth ... It wasn't so bad, because I had fun, and I was drunk enough to fall asleep anyway. I’ve spent other nights in which warmth was attained much more comfortably and naturally.

It’s cold tonight. Okay, so it’s not really cold; it’s California cold. It never feels warmer than fifty degrees in my house, though, and I often go to bed with my boots on because I can’t stop shivering otherwise. I need more blankets.

Apropos of nothing, I desperately need to do laundry. God, how I hate doing laundry.

Another item: I’m contemplating chopping my hair off and dying it from its current shade of bright red to a more natural, but still new, shade of dark brown. I don’t know, it’s just that sometimes when I catch myself in the mirror I think I look like Ronald McDonald.

I'm always the last person in my house to go to bed.

Late at night with no one to talk to, I get reflective and pretentious and my life acquires overtones stolen from Greek drama. From the back porch where I smoke, I see the moon peering down like the clear eye of Cyclops, and three sister evergreens standing in silhouette, silent and watchful as the Fates.

You know, it can be awful to be alone at night, but it’s the perfect time to be lonely.

~ Last Five Entries ~

- - 03.16.06

Tomorrow - 02.18.06

Bad Movies, Good Holidays, and Humu-humu-nuku-nuku-apua'a - 02.05.06

HO! - 01.12.06

Spike the egg nog! Unless you don't like egg nog, in which case just drink the brandy. - 12.24.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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