I've always said that I don't have any real-life heroes. In 2010, perhaps, this should change.

I have two candidates thus far: both men, both geniuses. One is a criminal mastermind and the other is a mad scientist.

This all stemmed from my recent introduction to the "Hipster Grifter." I was intrigued when I learned that, unlike most con artists, she was a woman; even better, that she was Asian-American and used this to her advantage when conning naive Brooklynite white boys (HA!!). Too bad her tricks weren't all that clever and that she seems like kind of a whiner.

So, until I've found a female con hero, I'll just have to settle for Frank Abagnale Jr. , whose brilliant career was glorified in Spielberg's Catch Me If You Can. He earns a spot as a hero because, despite his inevitable capture and imprisonment, he has since been released and become a millionaire in his own right simply by selling his criminal mind back to corporations and the ol' FBI as a fraud counselor. What a guy.

My second hero is inventor Dean Kamen, the man behind the Segway. Although I consider the Segway to be one of the dumbest inventions of our times, I have to give the man credit for all the OTHER shit he invented, most of which actually helps the human race and bears the distinct odor of genius. At his primary residence he has a collection of "1960s novelty furniture" and vintage wheelchairs, secret passageways, and a torture chamber. But what really counts him in is his micronation of North Dumpling Island, an off-the-grid mansion with its own navy where all his guests must call him either "Lord Dumpling" or "Lord Dumpling II".

I can never hope to live the lives of these extraordinary gentlemen, as I possess neither sociopathic tendencies nor a brain for science, but at the very least I can admit that they've led lives worth living. More to come.

So I saw these two girls last night at Rhino:


http://www.myspace.com/talknormaltalknormal

They are quite possibly the coolest, heaviest shit I've seen in forever. God. FUCK. The drummer was the biggest hardass I've ever seen. I can't wait to be as good as her one day. Seriously, everyone check this shit.

House show tonight at the lovely lair of the pajama'd princess Sara Century. Then a headliner (!!) at the Meadowlark on the 10th, and a Wet Pizza show at Rhino on the 12th. Our album is coming out soon. Soony soon soon. The Shannon & the Clams show at Bar Bar was pretty rad as well. Shannon had a big blonde bouffant and a glittering apron. We made some awesome Lust-Cats Jesus candles to sell (and some action figures, like, totally collectible ones) but forgot about them because dancing was so much more fun.

In other music news, Val from Night of Joy has moved up to Boulder. She and I and Francis have been joking around about starting a supergroup, mostly because we're the same persona in each of our bands. When we were all stoned and going "dude, huh-huh-huh" last night we brought that up again and broke into heaves of laughter. On Thanksgiving we put on wigs and fooled around with Franny's drums and keyboards, which was a lot of fun. We haven't practiced for real or written any songs, but we've got song names. "Sorry About the Bacon", "Helicopter Non Grata" and "Dances With Liquids" are a few. Heh.

ruuuullleeedom

Uhhh...

I was a'sposed to wake up early and buy fixins for baguette-making. Instead I read and cooked and watched Peter Sellers and Roy Rogers videos, which is fine and good except when you've been needlessly stinking up your bathrobe the entire time.

Today: Mi amor, the Carnival Plum, is heading down from his Boulder cave to play with me. We may go spying on people in Cheesman Park. At least, that is what I will propose. We have been planning this for some time and it's TREMENDOUS outside.

Then: Take-out at Robin's while we finish up our application for South by Southwest. We have to answer questions like "If you had to describe your band in 30 seconds, what would you say?" and "What do you hope to accomplish with your SXSW performance?". These sound straightforward but are in fact riddled with quagmires. The papers call us "riot grrl," which is boring. We won't say that. I don't know if we can afford to be funny, either. Although if my brain is ripe for witticism after a few mouthfuls of moo shu, I'll let fly.

I love GABBA. I want this shirt:

Had a dream last night about two very unrelated things, although I believe they were somehow part of the same general nonsense.

I remember admitting someone into a hospital and leaving their pets (an orange frog and an orange cat) at the Pet Receptacle in the lobby. When it came time for me to look after them I sauntered up to the lady at the desk and was dutifully ignored. "'Scuse me," I said, "but I'm here to see about a frog and cat I left in your care?"

To be fair, the woman seemed overwhelmed by the cosmic menagerie chattering away behind her-- a who's who of mutant creatures maimed by my subconscious' art department-- and I forgave her. But the urgency of my transaction was very real, and thus I persisted. She gave me a few withering glances and a coupla sound bites about patience and virtue and all that, but in the snippiest way possible. I don't think I ever got the animals back; I remember watching them together under the heat lamp in the cage they shared. The frog was especially memorable, a tiny thing with a translucent peach hue. Robin told me today that the image of a frog means death and rebirth. Huh.

In the second part of my dream, I had reunited with my (first ever) boyfriend from when I was 16. He'd gotten a little taller and his hair was longer, but he looked pretty much the same. We were lounging around his room and having a dopey-ass (albeit strangely riveting) conversation.
"How's California treating you?"
"Oh, you know..."
I remember his speech was peppered with odd slang, which was, as far as I can recollect in waking life, half the fault of California and half the fault of his own pill-pocked brain. From there I struck MONTAGE. The passage of time became a blur of dumb dates and rolling around like itchy barnyard creatures, and when it all slowed to a regular pace, we were in a hotel room, breaking up. "I don't know," he said, unable to look at me. "I just don't think this feels right at all."
"But a week ago we were so in loooove!" I whined, trying to grab hold of his shirt and missing. Shortly thereafter, without another word, he got up and left me alone in the room. The whole affair was really goddamn depressing. I remember feeling really nutty, frantically revisiting our magic montage for signs of strife. And hurt. WRETCHEDLY so. When I woke up I had a gnarly knot of anxiety and had forgotten where I was. It's funny; nothing even remotely resembling the above happened to us in reality, and I can't even fathom why he came to visit my dream in the first place. I also can't figure out why I was so terrified and fucking butt-hurt. I haven't thought about him in any measure of fondness in years. He wasn't a jerk I tried to turn my back on or anything, but people just forget.

I've been taking St. John's wort recently to see if there's any improvement. I'm a tangle of worry these days. Well, let's amend that; I've always been a little neurotic. It's probably just this exceedingly frigid fall we've been having. Here's to hoping matters improve quickly. This shit is DUMB.

Today when I was adventuring in Wyoming with Robin (we trekked to see the Sister Spit tour at U of WY) some "Tracy" character called me back about working as an actor at the HAUNTED FOREST. I shall call her back tomorrow morn. I cannot WAIT. It's possible that this gig would cut into my evenings and confound my Halloween plans but I'm thinking it would be worth it. All I'd have to do, I believe, is scream and jump at people from behind trees. For money.

Through the magic of Craigslist I also applied to be a private detective, a "clothed model" for some gallery on Santa Fe, a blurb writer for a medical marijuana site, a driver for the Google Earth camera, and some other shit I can't really remember. Oh-- my DREAM JOB as a tour guide at a chocolate factory was also listed, but I need to apply in person. I have to remember to do that. I am getting very comfortable with the idea that if I don't have a career, at least I will have some wonderful stories.

UH HEY GUYS

WANNA KNOW HOW HARD MY LIFE RULZ??????????

HERE'S

HOW


HARD


OK SO
MY BAND (LUST-CATS OF THE GUTTERS) PLAYED ITS FIRST SHOW ON SATURDAY TO A CERTAIN AMOUNT OF EXCITING ACCLAIM
BEFORE THEN (WITH NO SHOWS YET PLAYED) WE WERE VOTED 297TH BEST BAND IN DENVER

AND UHHH

NOW WE'VE BEEN TWITTERED ABOUT BY

COURTNEY

FUCKINNGGGGGG
LOVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?????!?!?!?!?!?!??!?????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SHE WAS LIKE DUDE MODERN GIRL BANDS SUCK BUT OH WAIT, THIS ONE DOESN'T HERE'S THEIR MYSPACE LINK

THE SONG SHE LIKED IS "REVENGE BIKINI BODY"

FUCKIN CHECK IT

HTTP://WWW.MYSPACE.COM/LUSTCATS





OUR NEXT SHOW SHALL BE AT THE END OF AUGUST WITH OUR BELOVED BROTHER BAND THE GOOCHI BOIZ (ALSO THE BAND THAT INCLUDES MY DELICIOUS LOVER ON BASS) AND HEADLINED BY GARAGE WEIRDO NOBUNNY

SOOOOOOO REEEEEEEAAALLLLLL DUUUUUUUUUDDDDEEE

I WILL REMEMBER YOU ALL IN THE LINER NOTES

I've sure been fucking up lately.

My articles are days late and my work finds me uncommunicative and difficult to manage (ie. been pretty goddamn lazy this June). Hopefully this can all change. I have lots on my plate right now, and it requires some alone time. Trouble is, I'm having too much fun and doing too much stuff with too many people. I can't be alone.

Going to New York tomorrow for a babe safari showdown. Should be very interesting. Here's hoping no part of it sucks.

Love every day.

"Waaht is a fgemale Orgasm? Trip to Moscow top prize inn Hungary uprising quiz"

I used to be like UGGGH when people would say "toats" as short for "totally" but when you say it like THIS:

TOATS COKE FLOATS!
TOATS KILLER, MY GNARLY MAN!
TOATS BOGUS!

...it rules.

So far one of my summer goals is successful (the 13-yr-old boy thing) and I have toats upped my usage of BODACIOUS, GNARLY, GRODY, KILLER, DOOD/DUDE, BOGUS, TUBULAR, BABE/ BABELY, RIGHTEOUS, MEGA, TASTY, DRAG/ DRAG CITY, BUMMER, PSYCH/ SIIIIKE, GRINDAGE, HOSER, MONDO, NOOB, PRIMO, RALPH, WHOA, PERVIN' A DISH, PRALINES AND DICK, and ROAD PIZZA. Speaking of road pizza, I have toats upped my intake of pizza. Last night I had twoooo slices. Unfortunately my intake of orange soda must increase exponentially. I dug on some orange soda at Lakeside Amusements, and a cherry Icee too. And some coconut Boone's Farm from a magic cup.

I wanna talk in more slang. Okay, check it.

Dude, I was toats pervin' on this dish, riiiight? And then I witnessed this totally gnarly spectacle, like these dinosaurs came out of nowhere and snapped up this primo babe right in front of me! It was drag city all around, man, I almost ralphed sooo hard. I figgered he'd be like, road pizza, right? Like mega dino-grindage? But then like these toats mondo alien beings came down and were like YO YOU BOGUS HOSER, STEP OFF AND LIKE DESIST. ANd like, the babe was saved and we sucked face allll night.

I FUCKIN' love my life.

I can't believe it took me so long to realize that being a big fish in a little pond is a big pile of ridiculous.

I have finally found the cloud of buddies I've been looking for: the artists, poets, crazies, musicians, nerds, and personal heroes. I finally have people to talk shop with and people to bring on my fireworks adventure. I can actually discuss weirdo things and be celebrated instead of deflated.

Of course, now, I wish I was an even BIGGER weirdo than I already am.

I wonder what would have become of me if the little girl I once was hadn't been squashed. If I had kept all that wonderful confidence and imagination in momentum, who on earth would I be? I'd like to think I'd be some Ivy-educated so-and-so who traveled the world with her boa constrictor and artist boyfriend. But you can never look back. Sure, I made some wrong turns. I should have cultivated a few more friendships, gone to that crazy liberal arts college in Vermont, said "no" to a handful of boys, and engaged in more risks. But there's nothing I can do about any of that now. It's a bummer that I'm 25 already and I could have been cultivating awesome like a wild weed for the past ten years.
I must remind myself that I am NOT boring and NOT a shiftless layabout.

1. I once single-handedly started an artist group. It only failed because I ran out of money. I may start it back up again.
2. I play drums in a girl band. We're new and we're rusty, but we write awesome songs and practice at a super-cool punk house.
3. I am building a fucking theremin. And you're not.
4. I am the friend you can always call when you need a partner in oddity. Suggest something strange, dangerous, creative, or rash, and I will be your woman.
5. I am a writer for hire. I write for a local newspaper, a local blog, a national blog and a national magazine. I've been slackin' a bit but there will be more soon. And it doesn't change the fact that I know how to write.
6. My taste in music kicks ass. Even though my record collection needs to get bigger, I am no dummy and I am voracious in my appetites.
7. I like to have fun with my clothes every day. I like bright colors, unusual fabrics, and bold prints.
8. I am starting a record label with my friends. It's called Eat Glitter and Die Stoopid (EGADS). We already have t-shirts.
9. I make things. It really depends. I like collages and painting and binding little journals. If I'm in love with you, you're the luckiest because I shower you with lots of magic gifts.
10. I am good company. I am funny, talkative, spontaneous, righteous, kind, enthusiastic, and absurd. I love to talk about girly stuff, too, so if you feel like gushing about your new beau I'm a great pair of ears to have hangin' around.
11. I am interested in a wide variety of subjects from high (modern art, literature) to low (horror movies, dead baby jokes), well-versed in the occult, and always up for games (board, parlor, etc.)
12. I am putting together a zine this summer about people's personal experiences with music. I've done a big chunk of the interviews so far. I'm nervous but I think it will be okay!

I have been really anxious lately about who I am. I'm beginning to think that no one really knows me at all. That's fair, though, because I am nobody in truth. I am an amorphous mixture of about nine or ten personae, some of which are more prominent than others. I think the people that know me best of all are the ones who bring out the sparkle in me-- my creative friends. They get to see me all aglow: crazy, loud, inventive, adventurous. I just wish that everybody could see that all the time, but there exist some serious psychic vampires up in this bitch. You know, the folks you know who just want to plug you with beer and clamp the mundane around your neck. Those people exhaust me. I want to be "on" all the time.

This summer I am embarking on my own ladyhood. I am going to become, for the first time, ALEXANDRA DOWNES EDGEWORTH. I am going to grow creatively and mentally. I am going to seek new friends, new experiences, and new places. I am not going to have any "lost" days where I mope about in my big yellow cave. I will let myself fall in love, however intimidating he may seem now (he LOVED the coconut I sent him in the mails). I will be a woman. I shall not be cynical and afraid any more. The world is an open and thrilling place, an unfurled carpet of desert and cemeteries and metropolises buzzing with lovely weirdos.

You know what? Fuck it.

I'm gonna build a fuckin' theremin. Yeah. That's first. Then I'm gonna play in my sweet ass band at Blast-O-Mat. I'm gonna make fuckin' dioramas out of my shoeboxes. I'm gonna explore dangerous places with my fuckin' Polaroid camera. YEAH. Then I'm gonna WRITE ABOUT IT.

June= ARMAGEDDON OVERHAUL MONTH. No more excuses. I am gonna go on a tough-ass regimen of AWESOME. It's gonna be brutal. There may be crying and lots of deodorant needed.

But seriously. FUCK this mopey shit. The sun is out and I'm here to destroy this planet.

#1 Rule: Be a 13-year old boy. Thus...

--Drink lots of orange soda
--Purchase and use a BB gun on cans and jocks
--Watch lots of horror movies
--Subgoal: figure out how to go on my dream date and lose my re-grown virginity
--Increase usage of the word "dude"
--Eat popsicles that turn your mouth unattractive colors
--Listen to lots of punk and speed metal
--Consume nachos
--Belch in public
--Tell retardos to fuck off
--Make water balloons daily and bring a squirt gun everywhere
--Make a holy annual pilgrimage to Wyoming for illegal fireworks. Set them off on someone's doorstep

!!!! It's gonna RULE!!! SOOOO HARRDDDDD

Other goals:
--the band!! We are gonna practice and then we're gonna PLAY like the WIND!
--lots of CONCERTS! Gonna watch 'em and hear 'em and write about 'em!
--lots of bad ideas! Like drinking Carlo Rossi ALL DAY!! On someone's ROOF!
--totally scoring. This is necessary for my pride.
--reading! more!
--having more parties with themes! like my egg drop party!
--going to the UFO watchtower!!
'



AUUUUGHGGHGHGHG THIS IS GONNA FUCKING OOOOWWWWN

Scene: Exterior, night. Two people are leaning against a dirty wall. Both have black hair and skinny arms.

1: Hey, what are you up to tonight?
2. I dunno. I was thinking about taking you out somewhere.
1. Oh, reeeeally? (flushes pink) Like where?
2. Umm. Do you have a preference?
1. Someplace that doesn't suck. Can you swing that?
2. I think so.
(comfortable silence)
2. How about we get some egg rolls and noodles to go and then some 40s and go sit in a graveyard?
1. Oh, shit dude. That sounds rad as all get out. I can drive.

Scene: Interior, car. Music is bubbling from the stereo.

2. Is this Big Black?
1. Yeah.
2. Fuck dude, that's cool.
1. I know.
2. Dude.

Scene: Exterior, night. The headstones of a cemetery glow in the moonlight.

2. (finishes 40, makes refreshed noise) So what do you do for a living?
1. I'm a music journalist.
2. That is the coolest, most beautiful thing I've ever heard in my life. Let's make out.
1. Okay!

(the rest has been edited for content)

I was just reminiscing about one of my former selves.

Let's call her "Reginald," as that was the name my parents would have given me if I had been born male. For real. I also would have been sent to military school. What a bastard I would have been. I probably would have blown up some public building. Maybe the Federal Reserve. Did you know that the Reserve isn't federal at all? No. It's a cartel. If we blew it up it might help our dollar. There's a lengthy explanation why, but we won't get into that.

Reginald was really nerdy about cartoons-- who drew them, who directed them, who did all their funny voices. Reggie had favorites: Tex Avery, Bill Plympton, Max Fleischer. She had a book of the 50 Greatest Cartoons of All Time or something like that. "The Cat Came Back" was in it, and so was "Bambi Meets Godzilla." Look them up.

She watched Looney Tunes almost daily and had a large mental catalogue of Acme products. She also made flipbooks-- lots of them. They have all since disappeared or been given away as gifts. The most memorable one was "Santa Spontaneously Combusts," featuring a Santa who expands until he explodes into shreds of colored fabric.



This was a great chapter.

I MUST REVISIT IT!!!

For your enjoyment:

CANNOT WRITE.

Have been trying for a few hours. It feels like peeing out a tiny squeeze. This album is terrible because it's boring. But I don't want to trash it because I don't think the band deserves it. I really think they just wanted to get together and make some effin' music. Who can argue with that? But oh god, it is like the sound of a thousand muscle cars and newly sprouted chin hairs.

I am going to read my book and then properly finish my drawing of a giant tit annihilating a city with a milk laser (I promise I will scan this) and then watch Linda Linda Linda. Or finish the tit and then film and then book. Oh, I don't know.

Gonna eat and smoke.

Dude, what the f? I got turned on today by picking up a banana.

In other news, I was at a coffee shop earlier and I saw this former professor of mine out for a "thingy" (my word for study session subtext DATE) with a girl who was very obviously a student. It was gross. It shouldn't be so bad because he's youngish, but she looked all of 17 and he's clearly just a sad doucher with no self-control when someone shows him attention.  You should have SEEN the looks she was giving him. It was like something out of........Alien. Like she wanted to swallow him up with one of her secret mini-mouths.

Ew.


In other other news, I am going to MBV very alone-ly. Well, I'm going with Carolina Jen (the Dando cuddler, see a few posts back) and meeting up with Katherine (radio director at local college station) and Brian (my coworker). But no beautiful boy. I screwed that up. I, uh, tried to dig deeper into the "altar stones" thing, and it turns out it meant nothing-- no pills, and most likely not a real flirtation. He offered me mushrooms, but I said no. It all seemed very curt. It might have been my imagination but it seemed like he was puzzled by my advances (granted, this was over the interwebs). Regardless I felt very embarassed and did not write him back. Now I have to remember that if I see him there, I MUST be brave and say hello or I will look even sillier. But I am still going to dress like a magic nymph.

My latest strategy is to say fuck-it-and-fuck-you. If I show up someplace with my whole head crimped and my cape on, you better enjoy it.

HEY! I am tired of not writing in here. It always makes me feel better and I love reconnecting with my friends.

I sometimes forget how big of an impact movies have made on my life. When I was little, I used to think I would write and direct something (you know, as well as being a famous writer). I used to be such a nerd-- amazing at that Kevin Bacon game and in identifying all those little guys like the art directors and production designers. Now I can often forget what a good movie does to me, how it makes me want to paint myself up like my favorite female lead and listen to the soundtrack every day. Before I discovered the world of music I would treat my videos like records, putting them on to suit moods. Recently, I reconnected with Natural Born Killers and Hedwig because I watched them really, really stoned. There's a bit of a backstory to NBK. It was the favorite movie of my first friend in high school, a 6th form to my 3rd (that's what we called the grades there). She was a crazywoman named Laura M. who encouraged class cutting and smoking and basically doing whatever I felt like. She would hand me down Betsey Johnson dresses, glitter bracelets, lucky lighters. I remember getting in her blue Oldsmobile and driving to Wendy's, where we would order chicken nuggets and leave threatening notes on the comment cards. I remember the whole school hated her and thought she was a slut/ lunatic/ bitch/ fill-in-the-blank. I thought she was weird and wonderful, and although my confidence didn't stay up after she graduated, I still feel like I owe her a lot. Natural Born Killers reminds me of her empty house with the stained green carpet, and her bedroom upstairs littered with bright clothes and shoes and ashes and dead plants, the television blinking its blue light over everything.

Naturally I have some favorite actresses and actors as well as favorite films. When I was 11 or so, I was on the Winona Ryder/ Johnny Depp bandwagon. Later, it was Angelina Jolie; then, Christina Ricci, Natasha Lyonne, Liv Tyler. In recent years, it's become Rose McGowan, Crispin Glover, Kate Winslet, Cate Blanchett. And Tilda Swinton! Did you know she has an artist husband AND an artist boyfriend? Yep. "We ostensibly live in the same house, but I travel the world with another delightful painter," she says. Tilda got her start in avant-garde films and is British and mind-numbingly talented but says "dude" all the time. And shit, man, she was the White Witch. She is totally amazing.



Again on the subject of movies; I just watched I Shot Andy Warhol the other night, also really stoned. This was probably a poor judgment call. I figured it would be fun to see two historical figures I dislike battle it out, but instead it really bothered me. Lili Taylor kicked the ass of her role as Valerie Solanas and it was frightening. I remember reading the SCUM Manifesto at a friend's house one winter and being very upset by it. Has anyone read it? I find it upsetting because when I am reading it I want so strongly to disagree with all the violence in it, but by the end I see her point and that also makes me uncomfortable. I was even more uncomfortable with seeing her life as a sexual abuse victim and prostitute onscreen. By the end of the film, I couldn't quit tell whether it was intended as a tender tribute or merely a depiction of a brilliant but extremely disturbed individual. I hope it was the latter; some of her behavior was inexcusably bad, even though sometimes I wish I could shoot Andy Warhol myself. Those turtlenecked Factory assholes. Ughh.

It's 4/20......yeahhhh. On NPR they're talking about Columbine, but outside the teens are getting faded. Just sayin'.

I feel only slightly better today.

I got all the tears out.

I hung out with Rachel at 6 and we went to a strange liquor-tasting thing she was invited to because she works at the Hilton. The liquor was some French ginger stuff that comes in a bottle shaped like a long Chinese lantern. I vented and drank 1 martini and 2 mojitos, and stuffed my face with free tacos. I was happy that I was in my cat-ear hat and in a fancy club. They had a unisex bathroom with heavy stall doors and a giant primping mirror, which made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. I thought of all the club dudes who'd had sex in there and made sure to wash my hands.

Afterwards we went back to Rachel's and watched "St. Elmo's Fire," which was a good laugh. I'd never seen that movie before and I can safely say it was lily-white and terrible. Demi Moore's character reminded me of my sister.

Does anyone know any books on the science/ phenomenon of fame? I would love to read an analysis on why things become popular: products, people, music, movies, books, behaviour.

Rachel then told me (in confessional-style) that she wants to move with me to Seattle. I was thrilled-- I won't be alone now. We will both need to come up with a Plan For Moving soon.

Rachel is a great comfort to me, but as soon as I left her apartment I began crying again. I just sucked it up and called Dustin, who made me feel mounds better. He also told me not to squelch the impulse to punch people in the face, which I liked.

I am still deathly worried about my future and the way I handle problems (not well). Do I have a persecutuon complex? Maybe, but I really do feel like an alien species sometimes. An alien species that the general public wants to spear with a pitchfork.  I think I need to suck it up and get professional help, as much as I hate the idea.

The world is a weird and wooly place when the only one who loves you is your mummy.

Really, life? Hilarious.

That person who I pretended not to care about? Lo and behold-- we are both going to My Bloody Valentine. He is bringing ecstasy. Well, rather, I said I might show up altered, with glitter on. He said we could build an altar. I said, are you attending, sir? He said yes, with altar stones. Heh. Heh.

I will not continue to pretend. I giggled like a titmouse when I found out.

I don't actually know if he will be bringing anyone (like Luna?) or not, but it doesn't matter. MBV + pill bliss + archetypal hot dude = formula for magic. I feel like an 8th grader whistling through her braces.

Eee!!

Glitter on ERRRRRYTHING!

Other stuff to look fwd to: Pam's slumber party tomorrow with chocolate and wine. Bree and Robin party next week.

I do not feel sad anymore.

To dye hair plum-lavender or not to dye hair plum-lavender?