paul didnt come home last nite after his sushi date with mohawk boy. there are many sens staring at me on the computer screen. its ten forty-two. who the fucks up at ten forty-two? so i was going to give this all up, that's why the secrets out c'est finit blah blah blah. new yorks too fast for slow moving blogs and sad slogs and bad bugs ect. plus i guess aimee has even read this thing. which is weird. she was in my very first post. obliquely. she asked me if i had brought michael axelgard to anup's (?) party when anup (?) used to live in that white clapboard house somewhere other than where he(?) lives now. i remember there wasn't very much alcohol at that party. i don't remember much else. i cant reference what all that other stuff i was babbling about in my first post was about and about how someone mentioned two unmentionables to me or something stupid. it was a stupid post. most of my posts were stupid. thats why i felt silly and disgusting and wanted to stop. but someone once said to me that it made them feel like running up and down shattuck waving their underwear with both hands and i thought how appropriate that was and how sexy. anyway i scanned down to where i said tag broke my heart because he said i was that kind of girl. what kind of girl? then i remembered about sexpigeon.org. then i read it and on it was a post from a month ago when i went back to visit berkeley detailing how i was a trollop and a tramp and trash and other "tr" type adjectives. but i only vaguely recall even seeing tag, maybe the time on the stairmaster at the gym and whatnot. here are some highlights: "And it's here, in this second, that I realize, gee, that I don't even like Cathy. She's intent on knowing everyone, everything, getting a gloss, sliding down the surface of things. When she faultily recognized David Enos (surely, now, who knows David Enos, save us lucky souls who do?) I realized that she was a tramp, trollop, that her priorities are a total dick, that she's trash, absolute trash, and that I don't ever want to talk to her anymore again. Again." for some reason i thought he said brian eno at the time, but didnt' care enough to not pretend to know who brian eno was. anyway, i guess i'm allright with that. i guess i shouldn't list him as my favorite tv show anymore. i do write about nick too much, and how much do i really talk to him these days anyway? and i do love glossy surface things: glossy magazines, surface magazine (well i only like that), shiny fabrics, plastic rainboots, laminated book covers, mod things. but i think this prompted eileen to rally for me, or something. eileen's such a trooper.

i thought i needed a paragraph break, a breather, a little line to reorganize. so i blog cuz its so good for a hangover. its like a bloody mary for the brain. and i am so hungover so much. and i am sad when i am hungover so you get the point, whoever you are. for a long while i forgot people even knew about this other than chris and eileen and nick and i think that's it. even sen i forgot. i'm glad paisley and volkert and mehmet have no idea. they would disapprove i think. this was a secret love letter to the people i loved. but now it feels sullied. not because of others, but because it was four in the morning the end of december i'm writing you now just to see if you're better new york is cold but i like where i'm living theres music through many streets all through the evening. so dear tag: you see, this thing with perkins, its perpetually on the skids, its like a very tiring slalom race and my feelings feel sullied since they feels remiss. but when he makes me happy, he makes me very very happy. and when he makes me unhappy, i feel like absolute fucking shit. and i can only hope to do the same for him. and sexy bird was a welcomed punch in the gourd (i stole that from marc b.--i was stoned out of my gourd!! i love marc) that there was an oakland, even if capote spun it out of the tip of his silver tongue and the caps of his golden teeth. i dont mean to sound mean, but its not about you. its about him. this whole thing is about him right now. it might be about someone else later, and i'll read it over one hungover morning after being sad and ask what the hell was i rambling about? and who's tag? and wheres my dramamine? and why is spff's livejournal so much sweeter than mine? how does she get those big exclamation letters to work so well? when do i get to go to jackson's diner with chris again? who else can cut my hair and give me layers that eileen would interrupt my inept attempt at serious conversation about adorno and jazz to drag me to a salon? why do i feel like sticking the word "for" at the end of that sentence? would that sound better? would it be grammatically correct? and so forth. sunshine pooled in bright little ponds at their feet. rays of light fell in between the screen of the windowpane like icicles of hail slicing through winter's night. it had been like this all week: summer inside and winter outside. when they lied in bed till two in the afternoon and made jokes about robots and aliens and robot-aliens and curled their woolen-socked toes in defiance of the pneumatic gods and their falling thermostats, she always wanted to hold his hand. that's all she wanted. but he was plagued by a certain condition of the blustery weather that prevented this consummation. she thought it was the fear of being hurt again that kept him restless and his hands tingly all day long. but who was she? she didn't know anything except that summer in winter is the best time of year to be.