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Earworm earworm earworm earworm.

Best thing about being home: A clingy cat.

Worst thing about being home: Cleaning out the refrigerator oh dear sweet lord.

Once upon a time a poor forensic psych major did some nude posing for a poor aspiring arts major she was fooling around with. Usually this ends poorly but hey, he's got a show coming up in a few months. Highly recommended for anyone who wants to see my tits without putting up with my mouth or putting out the cost of a few drinks.

( Everyone say hi to the new wheels )

V-a-c-a-t-i-o-n for the rest of the week, courtesy of a goon who felt like rearranging my face was an acceptable plea bargain. In the words of my boss, "now you go away for a week so you don't go postal and beat some granny's head in, don't look at me like that, I didn't write the rules." I'm determined that it is going to be a legit one this time, none of that family drama that ruined my, you know, actual vacation time usage a few weeks ago.

On that note, anyone know anyone who's selling a motorcycle?

The patron saint of your week is amplification. Avoid séances and subways; remember that implications are more than playthings. DO: shop around for a motorcycle and a tattoo artist. DON'T: regress, suppress, confess. Beware two-legged dogs, drink pomegranate juice mixed with sprite, and reread The Book of Longing.

( I should tell you the truth about something. This week I asked three people to marry me. You, my ex-girlfriend, and the librarian. I know you’re wondering why the librarian. She found the book I’d been looking for forever. When she emerged from a backroom with the book, I cried, You’re the big hero! She blushed and waved her hands nervously in front of her, no, no, she said and again I cried, my hero, my hero — her shy hands resumed knitting an invisible sweater above her belly… what she said next is why I wanted to marry her: If you went to library school you would’ve known how to find the book too. So how long do you think it would last with us, if from there I saw myself licking the librarian’s sweaty back in my bed and giggling, You’re the big hero, you’re the big hero as I fed her Gin Sling after Gin Sling and had her tell me why she wanted to be a librarian, I don’t even know if she has a husband because her hands were so balled up I couldn’t see her ring finger. What if I told you I wouldn’t want to have an affair with her unless she slurred and spilled her drink on the edge of my filthy bed, or if it ever happened, that I licked the librarian’s salty back, I’d still call you afterwards the same night, tell you to meet me for a drink somewhere, in some smoky, lonely place. )

So hey, what's going on?

The patron saint of your week is frustration. Avoid puns and vodka; burn a purple candle at both ends. Do at least one thing you'll probably regret, and listen to David Bowie and Rob Zombie with volume set to deafen. Beware inconvenient ex-lovers, eat sushi at least once, and buy Watchmen even if the extended director's cut comes out in December.

( The middle daughter forgets, there is always history. Show her white, she sees black. The problem is her vision. From infancy she has thrown off every color we wrapped her in: first the pink, contemptuous, and later even the blue, for reasons we hadn’t the nerve to be thankful for. She wants to wear red, or nothing. And you should see her with her red shirt flapping on her spindle body like some solo flag, marching up the river, leading the salmon to slaughter. She says they aren’t really dying. She says something is born of swimming upstream that finds its way back to the sea and spreads like a grassfire through the seaweed across the floor of underwater continents and finally comes back to the very same river, not one, but a thousand fish, a generation of fish. This middle daughter believes she will make history. )

Date:	2009-07-16 02:27
Subject:	application || character bio || storylines || rentman only
Security:	Public