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The sermon for Sunday, Jul. 07, 2002 is: I need to buy Post-Its 9:50 p.m. don't read this, Diary. I'm just using you as scrap paper-- someone just emailed me a fragment of a short story I apparently wrote in the endpaper of her book in Japanese class. * fragment 1-- "Kicking With The Other Foot" Laney says, before Nora's fingers have even left the ringer, Oh by the way, my parents will probably think you're my girlfriend, you know? Just play along, they love to be fucked with. Nonchalantly she says this. Jesus Christ, Laney---- -- but before Nora can commence wailing, the door opens and there is Mrs. Hearst, who resembles very much what would happen if Mrs Santa Claus had swallowed Laney and a couple reindeer. This is one big mother, and she's radiating a kind of hearthy glow that puts Nora in mind of what she imagines Victorian England was lit, all too golden and sooty and somehow laden with grease. Margaret! Mrs Hearst says brightly, waving a gigantic drumstick of an arm vaguely at the direction of her daughter, and then her eyes discover Nora, pressed against the corner and willing her skin to turn salamander and take on the colour of the stucco, camouflage her. Nora can see Mrs Hearst's giant pudding of head and hair swallow up that first impression of her, small Japanese girl with fucked-up hair and clad in unfashionably barbarian leather and metal, save me Lord Jesus, this nip is my daughter's girlfriend. Nora's reflection sinks into behind Mrs Hearst's glowing eyes, deep into the shadows! behind where Nora can no longer see nor read them, and somehow as they fall they touch a nerve or cause some mild seizure, for Mrs Hearst suddenly shivers and her mouth cracks open. A smile! You must be Siobhan, Mrs Hearst ventures, pronouncing the name correctly like a pureblooded Gael�. Merry Christmas. I mean, happy Holidays. Er, I mean, hello. You can let go of the buzzer now Nor, Laney says helpfully. Come in, Mrs Hearst says. Come in.
�which, it should be noted, Siobhan herself can't even pronounce.
 
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