3:42 p.m.||||2004-08-24

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When Cello mentioned running away to NYC, I had this sudden memory of the time I was going to join the circus, the punk-rock tattooed, fire-spitting, shtick-having circus. I was, what, twenty nine or something, drunk pretty much every day, and in love with the idea of travel, sleeping on dirt floors, singing on corners, the works.

But I was scared of how my mom would react, and I couldn’t come up with a better shtick than hypochondriac clown. Eh. (That’s because I had a rep for thinking I was dying all the time – those were the days when my IBS first manifested itself like a fist punching through the viscera beneath my right rib cage. I was convinced for four years that I would die before thirty, then realized I’d passed the mark.)

So, um, today? I feel like fucking punching a lot of assholes in the mouth.

It sucks to love someone so much but be so much yourself about it. I’m a pain in my own ass. Oh, and everyone else’s too, of course. But my own ass is stinging. I got some intimacy issues. But, oh how I do love Dave. I wish all we had in common is love. And not certain behaviors that shall remain nameless, but Lazy, you feel me, don’tcha? And anyone who ever tipped a fucking glass.

I’m vim and vinegar today.

Dave makes me feel sexy.