Pressure to think up a title is too much


After turning my hair into whore hair, my friend invited me to a party/wine tasting thing. I told her there was no way I was leaving the house, but she insisted I had spent enough time feeling sorry for myself.

Itís only been NINE days, wtf?

But then she said the magic words: free wine. Iím broke, so I said ok.

It was a black tie thing, so I went to the thrift store and bought a hideous black dress, then came home and removed the ruffle, replaced the hem with some left over black silk, re-did the neckline, and added a belt.

Iíve been working on an Itís-Sew-Easy one hour pattern for the past month, but when I have the proper motivation I can sew like a 7 year old in one of Kathy Leeís sweatshops.

The proper motivation would be free booze just so weíre clear.

Then when it was time to go, I just couldnít make myself leave the house. The thought of being around people, happy people? Too much.

My friend is mad at me now, as she has the right to be. Canceling 20 minutes before an event is shady, even by my standards. And my standards are wicked low.


I decided to work on some jewelry instead to take my mind off of some things. A couple months ago, I had placed some dried forget me nots in resin and . . . forgot about them.

Until yesterday.

Then I remembered. I remembered who had given me the flowers and that was just too much again.

So I left.


I went to the beach and walked. And walked and walked and walked. At some point I turned around, but had no idea how far I had walked or how long or where I was.

An hour later I found my car.

Four hours total walking on the beach.

I didnít feel much better, but had 79% more sand in my shoes then before I left.


I came home and downloaded most of the Hot Hot Heat album. I highly recommend it, but do what you will with that information, I have questionable taste.


Then I moved all my furniture and clothes and stuff from upstairs to the downstairs room vacated by my roommate. Even though it's smaller, it just feels better. I completely cleaned the upstairs bedroom and bathroom and closed the door.

I donít think Iíll be going back in there.


Bored, I checked my myspace account.

Lucky me, Marcus wants to be my friend. He sends this enticing message:

Hey, what's up? I stopped by your profile and thought you seemd cool. I am trying to find someone who has a 100% sex drive level, so let me know if you do and check out my page. Laters!

What exactly about my myspace profile screams Iím a whore?

Donít say itís my hair because I donít have any pictures of my whore hair on there.

Whore hair on there, fun.


I do, I have lots and lots of underpants.

Sorry, no pictures of me in my underpants Ė with my whore hair it might be too overwhelming.

I keep buying new underpants, even though no one will probably ever seem them.

Except me.

At least every time I go to the bathroom, it will be an exciting experience.

Not that it wasnít exciting before, but anyhow.

2006-02-05 at 7:17 p.m.