maybe she’ll come and kiss me out near riverside.

this weekend i spent a lot of time on the computer but not writing. i clicked my mouse with my left hand while on my right rested a soothing icepack. when i wasn’t catching up on all of your blogs, i looked at some of the sites that were nice enough to link me over the last month or so.

surprisingly, the one written by the ultradepressed anorexic supermodel who is so uncomfortable with her looks that she only goes out at night but still gets invited to go to parties around the world captured my interest and her writing was so good that i read her entire blog. normally the woe-is-me style doesn’t work on me because it’s so easy and predictable, but somehow this one pulls it off. all i hope is that this girl is for real and its not just a really awesome fake, cuz it could be, and im cynical.

but for today, lets pretend that she is for real. lets also pretend that she isn’t a completely depressed as she writes.

but can we pretend that she would do me the favor of an aol interview?

i have so many questions.

sadly, i think that if she is real, she’s probably as painfully shy as i and will deny me.

so all we’ll have is each other’s blogs.

sigh.

since i can’t read into what my mother is trying to tell me or not tell me about my father dying or not dying, i remain in sweaty so-cal, spending my evening speeding east down the 10 freeway to that dive of a venue: the glass house in pomona. the unbathed college crowd was enough to make me feel old and overdressed, and maybe i am too old because i swear this was the loudest show i’ve seen and my hearing was lost on my right side during the second act. maybe i just complain too much. well i know it but still the second act should have just left. i never saw a crowd of people so bored watching a show. finally after four hours of discomfort in my cheapo shoes, the white stripes came out and played one rapid hour of ugliest-man-done-wrong on guitar and that’s-my-homely-enormous-ex-wife on drums but i’ll-tell-you-she’s-my-sister. don’t misunderstand me, they were fantastic, but i’m still a little sick with rex and it hurts for me to watch unattractive stockiness. i can’t barely keep my weight over a hundred pounds at six feet tall and i don’t pound the drums every day… plus they had lousy catering backstage. figure that. – anorexorcism by flagrant disregard