12:26 a.m. Dear diary,

I'm incapable of reportage unless I employ a brute, AP-editorial style, thus: last night, I called the police for the second time in my life. I was scared, anxious, terrified, afraid for my beloved Stephanie, so I called the police for the second time in my life and gave them Stephanie's address and shrieked, Go, already, go. And very much like the first time I called the police, their arrival upon the scene was not greeted with jubiliation. Stephanie was incredibly pissed at me. And even though she quickly forgave me, after we hung up I stared at the floor and contemplated mental blueprints for suicide machines. I sketched on myself with a knife. I caused bruises on my neck.

The first time I called the police was after Young broke up with Marlo and called me saying he wanted to die. He wanted to play Marlo's voicemails for me, the entire history of their week-long relationship in voicemail, which he had kept. I said sure, and after litening to a bit of her voicemail and his running commentary, I put a lavolier mike on my phone and sampled her voicemail. After he was done, I said, Look what I can do! and took my sampler and drum machine and, oh I am so clever, right there and then came up with a backbeat with perfectly time-stretched samples of Marlo saying, "Young I love you... Young, can I see you tonight?... Young, not tonight, I've got something... Young, stop calling."

When I was done he screamed at me and said he was going to shoot himself. Since I was with him when he bought his gun, I knew he was capable of this and so I called the police. And when the police came in, let into his apartment by the building manager, they found Young laying on his bed, smoking pot and watching "Lusty Lactating Lesbians" on his widescreen TV. He called me screaming. I guess the police have that effect on people.

The next time he said he was going to kill himself, I did not call the police.

Ach. So much for AP-editorial bruitage.

Will anyone call the police on me?

ADDENDUM 1.28 AM It is a good thing, to go outside and stand in the cold night air in one's boxers and T-shirt, and chainsmoke, thinking of what to write in a letter to floodtide, thinking of one's beloved Stephanie, safe and asleep.

the Funny Show

agriculture poem

my life in the ghost of Bush

time-lapsed (part 1)

unreconciled

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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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