May 11th, 2003


seven confessions

1. For dinner I had angel food cake, chocolate ice cream, strawberries, whipped cream, and Dilettante hot chocolate sauce. I had another bowlful just now before bed.

2. I spent twenty minutes tonight surfing hot anal porn sites, studying assholes, because reading that horrible rape story the other day lodged a Tragically Wrong Picture in my imagination that I feel the need to overwrite, in lieu of actually scrubbing my brain clean. I don't believe that's worked yet. I'm afraid this may be one of those mental images that intrudes into my fantasies at inopportune moments twenty years from now.

3. I logged off my computer for the night, got into bed, and then addictively logged on again with my laptop.

4. I've been having Spike/Riley fantasies all night, where they fuck endlessly to bluesy Stevie Ray Vaughan songs.

5. I channel surfed into an episode of American QAF and by accident ended up liking it. It was the one where Brian pays for Justin's tuition, and the lesbians talk about having another baby, and Emmet cheats on Ted, and Jesus Christ, how the fuck do I know all their names? You might think this is nothing remarkable, but in fact I have the memory of a spaghetti collander for names, so this is just scary.

6. I'm not wearing any pants! ...of course, I'm in bed about to turn in for the night, rather than coming to you live from the Rainbow Room, so that's perhaps not terribly exciting. A number six was needed here, however, and unfortunately I did not once shoot a man just to watch him bleed.

Here you go: when I was finishing off my second bowl of ice cream, the last several cross-sections of strawberries reminded me of romanticized anuses. Rosebud!

7. Today I drove two blocks uphill and then parked, so that I wouldn't have to walk uphill to the CD store. I am just. that. lazy.

I'm wondering why I didn't buy any other Stevie Ray Vaughan CDs sooner. There is no bad here. With all respect to the man and his memory, he plays the guitar like he's fellating it. He plays. Not played. He still plays.

My Spike fucks the way Stevie plays guitar. It's a holy fuck.

Quite unexpectedly, after dicking around all day, I got some writing done today on that Goddamn Sidelines Story. I think that's how I'm going to refer to it from now on: That Goddamn Sidelines Story. I enjoyed the chunks of dialogue that I was able to dislodge from my head onto the page; however, it cannot be overstated just how sick I am of this story that I've been working on for four fucking months. It's really not a four-month story, either. A four-month story would be four times as long and four times as clever.

I am going to turn off my light now and think some more about how Riley needs to come up behind Spike and slide his arms around his waist and kiss his jaw.


The question is, do I want to walk one block to the market to buy the tomato I need to make a relatively healthy sandwich...or drive six blocks to where other people will wait on me and give me bacon?

Yes, that's a fairly stupid question.

Those of you eating lunch at home should go read today's grab-bag from thamiris, whose brain is switched on and whose words make everything interesting.