21.Jan.2003
and this concludes our broadcast
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hi guys
Thankfully, though, Jersey, they're enemies in text, so I don't have to deal with seeing their faces.
Danny, I responded.
Tinsel, tell me about upcoming shows and alcohol-induced infatuations.
Jubal, we need to work on the dream-telepathy.
Ben, give me a month.
TFS, spinning the poetic cycle is wearing thin. I don't have ICQ. I'll fix it, though. Go to more shows!
Thom, I'd love to.
Herbie, who the hell are you?
Donna, I was listening to Curve yesterday and I thought of you.
Squeaky, stop itching, and don't scare me into thinking you're stuck in a sea of crack addicts.
I once talked to a crack addict at two in the morning when I sauntered stupidly to Dunkin Donuts for an Icy Berry Drink. He was the second. The first was one of those tragic art types, bisexual, because it's a requisite when you're a tragic art type crack addict, I surmise.
Chris, I have no idea what you're doing with your life these days, but lay off the green.
Jason, the next time I talk to you won't be soon enough.
Kitten, in an alternate universe, I am still delivering you soup.
Andy, the cell minutes should be renewed as yet another cellular cycle dawns.
Michael, my literary zeros are useless without your ones.
Bee, this is like falling, and falling is like this.
Any female can don black-eyeliner and red pouty lips, holding a gun or a knife like she knows what she's doing. Beauty is transience. Skill, however, will kill you, no matter how physically unattractive you are.
I would tell you about this weekend, beer and laughter and Giz's flaming hair and the outs with Nikki and my brother's closet, and Dustin's car on Sunday and Mexican food with fabulous queso and nervous flour tortillas and hiking it back to the apartment, and Cheryl and the Golden Globes and strange female dynamics and people reaching the end of the line with me because I know innately the best way to combat a hang-over is to continue drinking as soon as one wakes up, and Led Zeppelin's Houses of the Holy and violins, and standing in the cold with your palms pressed flat against the chest of a guy no one likes hearing about, but the only word that means anything to me is, in fact, scaremonger.
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time & machine