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Please, God, don't let them be blond and skinny.

It's warm in my apartment today, one of the first full days of streaming sunlight I've had in a while. It makes me feel like it could be spring soon. This makes me happy. I am tired of bulky sweaters that make my breasts look even bigger than they already are. Sometimes I just want a little honesty from my outerwear.

I've just been laying around all day, making sure I've completely recovered from my massive battle with jetlag. I finished I am Charlotte Simmons at last. The folks over the The Morning News seemed to like it - the book made it all the way to the semifinals of their Tournament of Books. I consumed the first few hundred pages eagerly, but I found it repetitive and just kind of wrong after a while - I mean, I was innocent too when I started college, but what was she, retarded? - and by the end I was skimming chapters just to uncover the plot points.

While over at TMN, I noticed also Lisa Whiteman's lovely photo essay The Barbers of New York which annoyed me only because I had been thinking of doing something very similar. Only I am more fascinated with the hair on the floor waiting to be swept, the detritus of a day's work.

Today's detritus for me would be bread crumbs, cotton balls soaked with nail polish remover, and the silver and plastic coating of a Dayquil wrapper.

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Punk Slopers! Come see me read this Thursday at Barbes. Details below in that left hand column over there. It's going to be a brand new story no one has ever heard before ever ever ever.

(3/15/05)