Tuesday, September 10, 2002

So I have this friend I talk to very late at night.
This is great. How much better does it make me feel to talk to somebody then? I could never say...
Now, I'm poor and unemployed and riddled with debt. I *know* why I'm up.
But why are they (yes, ungrammatical, but still) awake? Are they worried like me, or upset, or hurt. Of all the people I know, they deserve any of that the very least.
So, yeah, this isn't an subtle inquiry, Person (at all, obviously). I think I've just got so many worries I'm parcelling them out commutatively.
JayleMurph: the lost Baudelaire orphan.

Somebody send me the boy from this month's Sak's Fifth Avenue spread in Esquire. (Go get the mag and look at him -- new word here -- *megaswoon*). Perfect hair, perfect eyes, perfect lips, gorgeous cheek bones: if he can't make me happy, Nothing Ever Will.

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