I'm going to tell you everything I can think of at this very moment.

Boy-voice and piano, there are few better things.

Between the assholes moving in upstairs, with their leather couches and their stomping feet and their method of dropping everything they own on the floor from what must be a height of four feet -- between those dickheads and the constant rainless thunder, it sounds like the world is collapsing. All we need is organ music.

House full of alcohol, and I don't want a drop. Although every morning I am tempted to chug some Goldschlager as I leave for class. Just for shits and giggles.

I half-watched a lot a television this weekend, feeling unable to commit to any one thing being shown. Apocalypse Now, The Chamber of Secrets, Prince of Thieves, even the Jason Priestly episode of MacGyver.

My father gets as appreciative as one can get (when it's not the Mets winning the World Series) during Apocalypse Now. I'm trying to explain to my sister about innocent lives in war and such, and he's telling my brother to pay attention to the napalm. My brother just wants to play Pokemon. My ssiter just wants to do somersaults off the couch.

Disturbing me terribly, I found myself growing inexplicably attracted to Robert Duvall.

So much kitten love this weekend. !!

(Say my name, sun shines through the rain, a whole life so lonely and then come and ease the pain. I don't want to lose this feeling!

Close your eyes, give me your hand. Do you feel my heart beating? Do you understand? Do you feel the same? AM I ONLY DREAMING OR IS THIS BURNING AN ETERNAL FLAME?)

I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I swear I am.

Special edition The Royal Tenenbaums for $9.99 -- perhaps there is a higher power after all, and his name is Material Joy.

Take me home tonight! I don't want to let you go 'til you see the light!

I WANT MY TATTOO.

asldjfalksjfklsjfaierwe0fn109u5r09234.

Suppose I should design it first and SEE IF I LIKE IT or something.

Motherfuck.

A Clear Midnight

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson over,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

The Last Invocation

At the last, tenderly,
From the walls of the powerful fortress’d house,
From the clasp of the knitted locks, from the keep of the well-closed doors,
Let me be wafted.

Let me glide noiselessly forth;
With the key of softness unlock the locks – with a whisper,
Set ope the doors O soul.

Tenderly – be not impatient,
(Strong is your hold O mortal flesh,
Strong is your hold O love.)

Walt Whitman

I just want to share what I love so much.

On Tuesday I watched Velvet Goldmine for the first time, and it's like, maybe, if you were a really big fan of stamp collecting, and someone made an entire movie full of nothing but stamps and stamp collecting, and you hadn't seen it but finally DID, and it was like stamp porn for you.

In my case, just take out "stamps" and insert "boys touching each other."

Then I watch The Pillow Book today, and it was really sad and beautiful and disturbing.

I can only imagine what watching these films would be like if I were on crack.

(I think I've seen more than my share of Ewan McGregor's cock now, by the way. At least until next month.)

Man, last night was all about dreams of school and people getting shot in the chest. That's how school makes me feel, though, so it was really a very nice sequence.

Ah, so the kitten's name is Sadie. I didn't select it, but I approve of it, and I wish I had thought of it first to take all the glory, but it was my mother's doing. She refers to the kitten as a "dilute calico."

Our lunatic stray is at the animal hospital being declawed, and my mother can't sleep for the guilt of him being alone.

I actually chose not to take a shower today for the sake of my fake tattoo.

I have a fake skull-and-swords tattoo on my arm, courtesy of Nicole and her sharpie. It is v. badass and mostly crazy exciting. I almost don't want to shower in the morning. I wonder how sharpie reacts to the sweat of July.

It's too hot to cook food. It's not too hot to go someplace else and have it served. Definitely too hot for clothes, though. A dangerous mix.

I have played 49 games of Freecell in the past four days.

I bought GQ and Flaunt today at the bookstore -- basically, I bought porn.

Today was the worst day* of my life, if I am allowed to exaggerate. But any day in which you accidentally step in a puddle of someone else's vomit in a parking lot, covering your toes and right sandal in hot white chunky mess, leaving you crying and gagging while your best friend gives you hand wipes and napkins and then carries your vomit-drenched sandal into the Goodwill and washes it off for you while you soap your toes furiously--well, it's just not a pleasant day, and certainly cannot ever be accounted as good.

I could still feel the vomit on my foot in a phantom-limb kind of way, and had to repress the nausea repeatedly. (I also took the liberty--well earned, I think--of whining about it four or five times during the course of the day.) I think I might puke just recalling it. I can handle the vomit of those I know and love, but anonymous vomit -- no. Just no.

Then at the supermarket my bag of cherries burst open and spilled all over the cart and floor while I was in line.

Sometimes going outside is not motherfucking worth it.

In other highlights, we're getting a girl-kitten to go with our boy-cat, and I get to name it. Well, I get to choose a variety of female names for it, sight unseen (I HATE COLLEGE), and the family will select from amongst the list. I had to beg like a two-year-old for the opportunity.

Also my eight-year-old brother got his ear pierced.

* PS: Uruk-Hai Battle Weekend on Day Calendar. Interpret at will.

"Nor is it perhaps really love when I say that for me you are the most beloved; love is to me that you are the knife which I turn within myself."

(Transcribed from my copy of The Basic Kafka, selections from letters to Milena.)

Dear Frau Milena,
(This form of address is becoming tiresome, but it’s one of those handles in the unsafe world to which the sick can hold on and it’s not yet a proof of returning health when the handles become tiresome to them.) I have never lived among German people, German is my mother-tongue and therefore natural to me, but Czech feels to me far more intimate, which is why your letter dispels many an uncertainty, I see you clearer, the movements of your body, your hands, so quick, so determined, it’s almost a meeting, although when I try to raise my eyes to your face, then in the flow of the letter—what a story!—fire breaks out and I see nothing but fire.

I somehow can no longer write of anything but what concerns us, us in the turmoil of the world, just us. Everything else is remote. Wrong! Wrong! But the lips are mumbling and my face lies in your lap.

The most beautiful of your letters (and that means a lot, for as a whole they are, almost in every line, the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me in my life) are those in which you agree with my “fear” and at the same time try to explain that I don’t need to have it. For I too, even though I may sometimes look like a bribed defender of my “fear,” probably agree with it deep down in myself, indeed it is part of me and perhaps the best part. And as it is my best, it is also perhaps this alone that you love. For what else worthy of love could be found in me? But this is worthy of love.
And when you once asked me how I could have called that Saturday “good” with that fear in my heart, it’s not difficult to explain. Since I love you (and I do love you, you stupid one, as the sea loves a pebble in its depths, this is just how my love engulfs you—and may I in turn be the pebble with you, if Heaven permits), I love the whole world and this includes your left shoulder, no, it was first the right one, so I kiss it if I feel like it (and if you are nice enough to pull the blouse away from it) and this also includes your left shoulder and your face above me in the forest and my resting on your almost bare breast. And that’s why you’re right in saying that we were already one and I’m not afraid of it, rather it is my only happiness and my only pride and I don’t confine it at all only to the forest.
But just between this day-world and that “half-hour in bed” of which you once spoke contemptuously as “men’s business,” there lies for me an abyss which I cannot bridge, probably because I don’t want to. That over there is a concern of the night, thoroughly and in every sense a concern of the night: this here is the world and I possess it and now I’m supposed to leap across into the night in order to take possession of it once more. Can one take possession of anything twice? Does that not mean: to lose it? Here is the world which I possess, and I’m supposed to leap across for the sake of a sinister black-magic, of a hocus-pocus, a philosopher’s stone, an alchemy, a wish-ring. Away with it, I’m terribly afraid of it.
To try and catch in one night by black magic, hastily, heavily breathing, helpless, obsessed, to try and obtain by black magic what every day offers to open eyes! (“Perhaps” children can’t be begotten in any other way, “perhaps” children too are black magic. Let us leave this question for the moment.) This is the reason why I’m so grateful (to you and to everything) and it is therefore “samozrejimé” (natural) that by your side I’m most quiet and most unquiet, most inhibited and most free, and this is also why, after this realization, I have renounced all other life. Look into my eyes!

At last I’ve read the other letter, but actually only beginning with the passage: “Nechci abys na odpovídal”—“I don’t want you to answer that.” I don’t know what precedes this, but today, faced with your letters which confirm you irrefutably as I carry you locked within myself, I’m ready to sign it unread as true even if it should testify against me before the highest court. I’m dirty, Milena, infinitely dirty, which is why I make so much fuss about purity. No people sing with such pure voices as those who live in deepest hell; what we take for the song of angels is their song.

It’s a long time since I wrote to you, Frau Milena, and even today I’m writing only as the result of an incident. Actually, I don’t have to apologize for my not writing, you know after all how I hate letters. All the misfortune of my life—I don’t wish to complain, but to make a generally instructive remark—derives, one could say, from letters or from the possibility of writing letters. People have hardly ever deceived me, but letters always—and as a matter of fact not only those of other people, but my own. In my case this is a special misfortune of which I won’t say more, but at the same time also a general one. The easy possibility of letter-writing must—seen merely theoretically—have brought into the world a terrible disintegration of souls. It is, in fact, an intercourse with ghosts, and not only with the ghost of the recipient but also with one’s own ghost which develops between the lines of the letter one is writing and even more so in a series of letters where one letter corroborates the other and can refer to it as a witness. How on earth did anyone get the idea that people can communicate with one another by letter! Of a distant person one can think, and of a person who is near one can catch hold—all else goes beyond human strength. Writing letters, however, means to denude oneself before the ghosts, something for which they greedily wait. Written kisses don’t reach their destination, rather they are drunk on the way by the ghosts. It is on this ample nourishment that they multiply so enormously. Humanity senses this and fights against it and in order to eliminate as far as possible the ghostly element between people and to create a natural communication, the peace of souls, it has invented the railway, the motor car, the aeroplane. But it’s no longer any good, these are evidently inventions being made at the moment of crashing. The opposing side is so much calmer and stronger; after the postal service it has invented the telegraph, the telephone, the radiograph. The ghosts won’t starve, but we will perish.

- I am very eager to purchase some 50 Cent, but I won't pay the fifteen dollars for it. Currently. Although the more I crave his pretty, calming, soothing songs about motherfuckers and weed, the more inclined I become to sell babies for it.

- I found someone who didn't enjoy Pirates of the Caribbean. (!) I still love you, though, and will keep you nameless for your protection, ______.

- Johnny Depp in GQ, at the piano. No amount of extra and random punctuation could properly explain.

As today was Boromir Day on the Day Calendar, I expected generally decent things tainted with a little bit of evil.

Exhibit A: I made it to class, a fantastic accomplishment in itself (also without the tripping and bloodshed!), but wanted to commit suicide during the terrible video on Athens.

Exhibit B: The day Nicole signs a lease and has secured a place to live next semester, she discovers our friend Vera could have moved in here.

Exhibit C: The world at large.

For my mythology test on Wednesday, it's the Balrog. At first you might be inclined to despair--but think of how Gandalf kicked the motherfucking shit out of that sonofabitch.

Swedish Fish as a meal? I think so.

Sometimes I forget to check my normal email because I'm too excited to check my Gay Porn Only email. Let me just say that after Legolas/Gimli nothing really compares in the other inbox.

Tonight, reading Whitman's death poems, his beautiful poems about dying. And Kafka's letters to Milena, his married Czech translator, crying, because they are sad but beautiful too, they make me feel like curling up next to his sick form and meeting death with him, while weeping. I love you Walt. I love you Franz. My dear dear men.

Saw POTC again. Spent most of the time laughing at upcoming jokes and moaning in my seat about the Crazy Motherfucking Hotness of Johnny Depp as a pirate. His perfection in the role is fathomless.

The question I have been asking everyone: If you had to choose between the two, would you rather be with a paralyzed midget in a wheelchair, or a physically functional boy who was slow in the head? Because in my dreams I was being pursued by the midget in the wheelchair, but was already dating a retarded version of Orlando Bloom, who was still a good boyfriend even though I couldn't let him wander off by himself.

Choices! It's 2-0 in favor of hot & mentally slow. Others are still pondering.

Sliding past students to get a seat down the row, I wonder, Tyler Durden like, should I give them the ass or the crotch?

Mostly I just hit them with my gigantic grandma straw purse.

& also:

Oh, man, I was just thinking of more bashing-my-parts fun. Those dome playground toys for climbing, made of many short steel bars shaped like triangles -- DON'T FALL with one of these between your legs, or it will mash your clitoral-esque business. It's the only time in my life when something hurt so bad that lights flashed behind my eyes. Pain that flares! Dude. Even when I gouged all that flesh out of my leg with the errant screw! Or stabbed my tonsils with a pencil. Or took a flying leap off our deck! Or got bit by that spider six times. Or ground my bones up!

I want to hear all about when you got fucked up. If it's in your pants, extra points!

I've posted from my personal emails, so now it's only appropriate that I use things from the Board, in a discussion about the condition of my hymen at that moment:

Speaking of nether regions, do any of you remember those weird bouncing/pogo-type balls attached to a round platform for your feet? So you were basically bouncing on a plastic ring with a big rubber ball in the center? If you do, splendid, and if you don't, just imagine tripping and falling on the round edge of Boromir's shield between your legs. I fucked my shit up and was bleeding everywhere! (In retrospect this story is hilarious to me and horrifying to listeners.) It was more of an external mashing, but shite, my hymen should have died from the shock its sisterly parts took.

Enough about my genitals! Stop me.

Our dynamic: my mother called. "Just called to see what the hell you were doing," she says. She tells me about painting the wood trim in the hallway white, and how it suddenly makes the dusky orange wall paint in there "just pop out." "You're just like Martha Stewart," I tease, because if there's one woman in this world my mother hates more than Jewel, it is Martha. "Don't you even start that shit with me," she says. "I will drive up there and slap your face."

Ah good lord, Ma, I love you.

(When I hit puberty, the size of my nipples did not equalize as I hoped they might when I was seven, but instead I stopped calling my mother Mommy and started calling her Ma. She is Mother when I am angry, though, just like in the olden days. "Oh, Mother!")

PIRATES OF THE (MOTHERFUCKING!) CARIBBEAN.

I have never loved Johnny Depp as hard as I love him as Captain Jack Sparrow! I love him! I love him. The movie was good. I was very, very content. Very, very giddy. Sometimes I laughed because bits of it were retarded, but mostly I laughed because it was great and because I was thrilled. Pirates! Pirates! Oh my lord!

I have the incredible urge to cook dinner for a man, barefoot in the kitchen with a baby on my hip! No! No! Okay, maybe.

A Cat Power morning. Last night the Once More With Feeling soundtrack helped me clean my room. House of Pain and Matthew Good help me clean dishes!

Nicole found a test for gay-ness in a magazine, judging your sexuality according to the lengths of your fingers. I am in the category "major dyke" with a daytrip into plain "dyke." It made our Wal-Mart trip that much special-er.

My site is very superficial! And I like it that way. You don't want to hear about my severe inabilities, like my inability to sit on the right in a movie theatre, or to have a ceiling fan off, or to be touched near the neck. You want to hear about my pirate sex fantasies, you lecherous fucks, I know it.

I am covered in scabs and small cuts. I have the scarred body of a 44-year-old construction worker. SEXXXY.

Something bizarre happened yesterday. I will summarize the confusing events briefly: when I took my shirt off my hand hit the chain for the ceiling fan/light, the chain flew up and chemically melted and blackened onto a screw in the light fixture, and the power in the apartment was knocked out. The light had not been on for days.

?? Um.

"I must be a wizard!"

I have to admit I had Harry-Potter-style fantasies for about three seconds until Nicole shot me down.

No, for real. Emails to Fran are full of Important Details like this:

-- Wolverine's belt-buckle turns me on. Also his tank
top.

-- WHEN IN DOUBT, ATTEMPT SHITTY ARTS & CRAFTS.

-- Speaking of sex, I bought A Rush Of Blood To The Head
for a MERE TEN DOLLARS AMERICAN at Target on Saturday.

-- I had cake and grape juice for first breakfast. The
cake didn't have frosting, however, so I feel like it
was a decision beyond reproach.

-- Man, tomorrow all I want to do is fuck Legolas, but
apparently there's this thing where fictional
characters are not real.

-- FIVE DAYS UNTIL THE PIRATES!!!!! of the Caribbean!!!!
and their CURSE OF THE BLACK PEARL!!!!@

Pizza-Breath Consiglio

I have a whole variety of twitching muscles now, eye and thigh and palm. It's like I'm 3/5 of a really fucked up version of Captain Planet.

Pedx is the new black!

The cat likes to take a running leap and bite my head. Today I was looking at him and he looked back and then his paw shot out and swiped the glasses off my face. Post-head-biting, like a final humiliating smack.

Choking to death on the spit-juice of a hard sugar-free candy. This is no noble end!

Things I Hate: When people I don't like assume a familiarity with me. When people I don't know use my name either aloud or in writing. When I can overhear your conversation in a restaurant. When men wear their baseball caps backwards, or their visor upside-down and backwards, or sideways. When assholes don't know how to use 4-way stops. When people talk on their cell phones while in the bathroom stalls. When I have to run from you in the mall because you'll open your mouth if you see me. When cars try to tell me what to do as a pedestrian. WHEN PEOPLE LEAVE THEIR DOGS IN THEIR FUCKING CARS, A WINDOW CRACKED, IN JULY OR EVER.

A Story

I fell down today. Naturally I was wearing a knee-length skirt, and not pants, (protective, lovely pants!), and I tripped over one of those invisible dead bodies lying around and fell to my knees on the motherfucking rough pebbled plaza amidst a throng of people. The girl I was passing at the time was horrified. I think I muttered something sinful about Jesus and got up and bled my way into the bathroom. Then I dug out the emergency bandaid I keep in my wallet (three times it has been necessary to use and replace this key item in my Arsenal of Belongings), wiped the blood out of the gash in my knee and the cut on my other foot and the skinned shins and sat in my hot overcrowded Mythology class for 75 minutes while my flesh burned and stung. Zeus, you can blow me.

The End

If the only way to get concord grape juice in this world was to turn religious and receive it only at communion, I would be sorely tempted.

I have decided not to go to my college graduation. I'd rather sleep in. I'd rather go eat a Grand Slam and see Wanda at Denny's before I move out and away forever. I'd rather have a party with the friends I'll be leaving than stand amidst a crowd of people I have never met and probably despise (hateful creature I am), unbearably hot under the layers of clothing, bored for hours, probably bleeding from my uterus, my mother at work and unable to attend, listening to an old white man mispronounce my name and the frat boys around me congratulate themselves. So I have decided to skip out on the pomp and circumstance this time around ... but if you don't come to my graduate school ceremony, I will CUT YOU.

Trying to use Elmer's Glue to fix my worn-out copy of The Drawing of the Three, which has split in two and torn from its cover. My life is sad.

If I die before I get to read the end of The Dark Tower, I will be monumentally non-plussed. If I die and you don't, and you get to read it and I don't, then a plague on your house FOREVER.

I'm in a damning mood. I will cast you into perdition at the drop of a hat.