2004-09-11

Somebody please make me a t-shirt that says: CONGRATULATE ME, I quit smoking! EXCUSE ME, I'm completely, psychotically out of my mind!

I still feel totally insane, thanks for asking! I'm so freaked, I can barely stand myself, I can barely stand up, I can barely function. Last night I entered that degraded low point of demanding people blow their processed smoke in my face.

I played a game of pool with this guy who used to be on my team. He's the winner of The Nicest Dude in the World award, but every time he missed a shot, I wanted to slit his throat. Or mine.

Today I was practicing music, and when I hit a flat note, I wanted to shatter my viola. I switched instruments and realized I wanted to smash my bass into my viola. Then I put it all down and cried.

I'm losing it, people.

In other insane news, you may remember that last summer I went camping with a bunch of drag queens. The queen of the queens died last week. The one who, of her polka dot rhinestone dress, said, "Mary, when I walked through the room, there wasn't a drag queen in the place whose nylons didn't get a run. I was a living cuisinart."

My lady friend and I stayed up with her lover of twenty years til 3am that night, at which point I agreed to perform at the funeral.

And what does he want me to sing? Wind. Beneath. My. Fucking. Wings. I swear, if I haven't shot myself by then, I might have to do it in the middle of that song.

In conclusion, here's a picture of me and my fantabulous eyelashes as I stop playing the guitar to feed the fishies. Or something.