Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Bird Watch

I have a tearful confession to make. I had a terrible dream about Michael Flatley last night. Yes, ladies and gents, the Lord of the Dance tried to rape me. Well, not exactly rape per se, more like rubbed his ... lower, naked, hairy half against my "coconut" *runs away in tears*. He walked around in tattered T-shirts with no pants on and showed off his mullet like a hockey player in heat. (He had the pretentious air of a ladies' man without the attire to pull it off properly.) When a mutual acquaintance of ours approached us soon after (because the Irish-American toe tapper and I would undoubtedly have common colleagues) and asked him, point blank, if he and I ever had "sexual relations," he guffawed and said (and I quote), "No. We were faking it for show." (Extrapolated meaning, perhaps?)

I was so relieved when those words left his chapped lips. I felt like a '50s schoolgirl with superstitious ideas of pregnancy (where zealous hands and bare legs led to a lifetime of ever after). He then proceeded to push me away, turned his back (still sans pants *shudder*), and drove off in his frou frou Ferrari.

I woke up with an existential aneurysm. Vomit just wouldn't have cut it.

*sidnote: There are some drunk girls outside my apartment faking loud orgasms by the elevators. I suppose I'm not so pathetic after all.


I'm going to dress up as Louise Brooks for Hallowe'en. Instead of buying a wig, I cut my hair. I have looked like this for two days:

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I enjoy the attention I'm receiving from portraying a silent movie star. My recent Dietrich-inspired wardrobe helps too.

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