I know a woman (who loves me).

Ah, the postmodern fractured self. Polaroid had it down in '67.

One of the dudes in my program is having a story published in Playboy here pretty soon, and he wants to tell you all about it, all the time. The program has a listserv and he ab/uses that crap to the death! I've taken the only contra-measure possible: listserving insults back his way. I'm not alone; a funny/tuff chick in the program recently photoshopped his face onto some gay porn alligator wrestler and sent it 'round. Man, I like that.

For the first time in my life I feel like I'm openly trying to deny feelings I have. It doesn't feel good. That's probably both contradictary and obvious, but if you can't be honest for the swiftly dwindling readership of your obscure blog, then who can you be honest with. At least I'm abiding by the Baptist rule of thumb: if you're being honest, be sure that you're as vague as possible. Cliche: I feel like the knuckles that have "love" and "hate" tattooed on them are pummeling my head.

I'm really getting more and more into the polaroids these weeks. When you've got a daughter that's damn cute and (don't) have a love that's damn into polaroids, that always helps. "You're ready for a flickr account." Eh, I'd rather be ready for you, you.