i am drunkenly cutting my housemate's hair. Correction: WAS, not am. Because he is going to bed. Not because I made him look like Tegan/Sara/some other pop culture dyke. No. Because he's TIRED. He's fucking tired, I said. And we're gonna finish in the morning. But hey: guys? I give a damn good dyke cut. So come to me when you want your next dyke cut.

Five AM, forty-five degrees (warm enough to maintain sensation in fingers for a while); a soccer field; I lay in the wet grass and listened to Enigma's "Return to Innocence" (1994); hah...; (sheesh).

I read the phrase "mouse support," and just at that moment, I saw a small dark thing scurry across my living room floor past the fireplace. I didn't think it could truly be THAT--for when is life ever so eloquent? But the scurrying thing turned around and again scurried past the fireplace, and it paused just long enough for me to think just hard enough, and then it retraced its initial beeline to some place behind the couch. And surely now I'm sure that it was a mouse (the first I've ever seen in my house).

awful/awesome/a shared root not by chance but by necessity
(period)

I'm writing this on my phone while sitting on a toilet at a house full of psychonauts/psycho-nots who are experiencing what it is *to*see*eye* to eye (the asterisks demarcate a hypersecret code [I'm not just being cheesy for the sake of being cheesy (this time)]), and I'm tripping ballz on Ubuntu, which is at this point not as desirable to me as it once was because it looks so easy with that streamlined GUI--AHHHH WHY AM I BLOGGING RIGHT NOW?!!!!!????!!!!!!!!

If I had the entrepeneurial spirit, I'd design a large, back-friendly, compartmentalized backpack for materialistic object-hoarders (à la yours truly) and call it the Packrat.

test!!!!