Monday, September 26, 2005

Nothing much to say except this

Not having money has forced me to deal with the concept of "control." I can no longer afford to buy books and thus, have resorted to browsing the bookstore like a perverted priest. There is nothing quite like the strained snap of a virgin spine. It's the closest a woman -- this woman -- could possibly hope to being a man. My fingers fondle through the crisp terrain, following the consistent crackle of discomfort and constriction. It's the scent of new paper, the fragile type, the gluttonous promise of pleasure that taunts me for visits that end in empty-hands. The boxy shape captures within its form the "fleeting moment" we long for in every surprise gesture and request. But it is only between the covers of a book -- which you possess for the sake of possession -- can that feeling be genuinely replicated like no other human exchange. To be around them, to just be near them, sends me into an epithetic rage -- 40% off and still they elude me?!

Salman, Salman! Shalimar this clown!


I did not relapse. It was just a friendly, four-hour fu ...nfest. And though I sensed his reignited interest -- and it was compellingly obvious -- I think it would be fair to say he'll have to work for it like a mating muskrat and then some (a porcupine, perhaps?).

Oh, I can already hear the incredulous gasps: "Take him back? Are you, like, insane in the membrane? He's a jerk! Throw him off his rollicking rocker and feed him to me genetically-mutated, organically-bred, tofurkeys!"

Aye, I guess that's a convincing argument. If this year-long-drama-bordering-on-deluded-self-parody concludes anytime soon, watch it all unwind here ... on UPN.

P.S. Everyone needs a sexy dress.


My computer is dead. Good-riddance. It's been relegated to being the world's most expensive iPod charger. Fucking PC laptop. Made in Taiwan, my ass. More like Made in ... bad stuff ... place.

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