The sermon for Tuesday, Jul. 16, 2002 is: now i lay me down to sleep
10:48 p.m. Clara just instant-messaged me and I told her my whole sob story. She said the same things that Colleen said.
Women. Can't live with 'em, can't live with 'em.
When I told her about Young, all she said was, "Bloody boys."
Larsen called me and I told him my sob story. He wailed along with me.
I feel stupid and self-indulgent for misdirecting my grief over a -- well, let's face it -- a lost masterpiece.* And Clara's made me irritable, so I think it best if I just shut the fuck up now and go to bed.
Lord, if I should die before I wake -- thank you.
* I've just re-read this; when I write "lost masterpiece," do I mean Young or do I mean my story? I don't know. I don't know. I loathe myself.
the Funny Show
agriculture poem
my life in the ghost of Bush
time-lapsed (part 1)
unreconciled
Images are taken without permission from the fine and trusting folks at Folk Arts of Poland; please purchase something from them. Background music stolen without permission from Epitonic, Basta Music, and just about everywhere else my unscrupulous hands could grab something. No rights reserved.
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