Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.

My sin, my soul.

Life's been hard, dear reader[(s) I don't even know if it's singular anymore...]. Luckily, there's always O. and getting more ink slung. I hate moving, I hate feeling like a bastard--and I really hate how insecure I am. For those of you I haven't talked to in a piece, this schoolyear will be very different than the last, and (to continue on in the vague vein) much better/happier/more healthy. You'll all know soon enough, by voice or other sensory contact with yrs-in-the-flesh, properly. As one of my Writing School Buddies has told me over Sonora Review submissions over cheep beer (but still in a glass bottle), "Mr. Mains, you're life's like three Camus novels all at once!" I concur, dear Knuffle Bunny. Twofold.

After years of being around the cult of Aaron Coleman tattooing, I've finally waited my turn and and sat off to the left as one enters Immaculate. Yes, indeed: the inkins. Like sexual partners, you gotta keep track of how many folks have yr momma's baby's flesh (6), and finally, someone who doesn't smoke. I can't tell you how excellent this was for me: no more smokebreaks after the transfer, then after the drawing on with marker, then the setting up, then the one- two- three-hour marks, etc. Just two quick stops to hit the smartwater and my arm's lined. Boy--it's worth the wait and dough. I'll bring the proper pictures when they heal, but for now, this is what I got.

love.