13 February 2003 - 1:15 p.m.

Last night, someone credited me with writing a diary entry that was, in it's entirety, an Oscar Wilde reference.

I think that's slightly less incriminating (and depressing) than a short, shallow, drunken history of my life, so we'll just go with that. Maybe it's to my credit that I can get maudlin and be called clever. I can get away with shit.

From my weekly horoscope: "They might discover that the giggly comic with the whimsical and philosophical sense of humor can turn into a person capable of real passion, too much passion for that matter, which could be unnerving."

I'm sorry, world. I didn't mean to fuck with you.

What I'm wearing: Purple wrap shirt, blue jeans, saddle shoes.

What I'm reading: Somebody playing piano upstairs.

What I'm doing after this: Writing a letter to my future child.