Today I test well with the 18-24 demographic who enjoyed talking to me all day long about my pretty pink hair. Seriously, mall boys? I know you didn. I think I’m ovulating or something, except rather than planning to ruin the lives of these boys by leaving a trail of STDs, outstanding parking tickets, etc., I am instead focusing on inanimate objects or moods. Music is so beautiful today and everything smells so good. I am in love with the world rather than the people in it and this is disturbingly transcendent and non-carnal of me, so I assume it’s just a phase.

I kind of wish I could go on a rampage of Epic Rake proportions but I just don’t have it in me. I have that feeling like in dreams where I walk from room to room, immediately forgetting the previous room and being completely incurious about what’s going on with strangers I hardly know, who insist on dropping tantalizing tidbits before me. I used to feel like it was my duty as as a writer to actively rubberneck, to catch the essence of life, distill it, and bottle it into a few words that would actually make people give a shit about something and feel glad that they woke up this morning. Maybe it’s because I actually am writing more lately, so I am out of Humanity Research mode. If we are not already besties, I am probably not the best person to tell about your colon operation or your affair with your Esperanto professor. NO.

There is this little part of me that is concerned I am coming off as a giant feckless douchebag, and this other part of me that doesn’t care. How long is it reasonable to stay in survival mode? Is it ground gained and lost again? I usually do things more dramatically and decisively, like Wonder Woman gets her fucking powers back all the sudden and kicks out the wall. Now, I don’t know. I feel like I can do things by halves.

Thursday night I spent throwing up and my prime suspect is dodgy pub nachos, since everything else I ate that day was awesome and lovingly caressed by artisans holding degrees who are located within a ten-mile radius. It’s either the nachos or some stuff I ate off the ground after I left the pub. Tough call. While I was ill Franny’s stepmother came over and used the bathroom and no doubt took in the squalorous state of my sickhouse. Part of me feels judged by the smug contingent who have only been married once (Big ups, go Team Inertia) and the other part of me thinks, WELL WELL, just wait until you are a used up slattern with piles of debt and recycling that needs taking out. JUST WAIT.

Also, I want to tell you that the thing I forgot about retail is that you are absolutely trapped and are completely under the thrall of the public and their whims. I would like you to do a ten-point inspection of me and tell me why every time I work retail portly men in their fifties decide I am the fucking tits. Show your work. I keep getting older but these guys stay the same age. Cripes.

Today’s Horoscope: Today you will get caught sniffing your ring finger on the bus repeatedly, producing a look of shock and revulsion, but you will be unable to stop. You will find a pink hair in your food, which you will blame on me. DNA testing will clear my name, but what you don’t know is that the SPIT is mine.

Lucky numbers: FUCK RIGHT OFF.

P.S., Gave up and ordered a Vista recovery disk. I am a little afraid that Vista owns me now. OSes will move on, but Vista and I are tied, I fear. You never forget the one who made out with you at the movies, dented your car, talked you into London Bridging but then made you soup, and then got away. Despondent sonnets to follow; watch this space.