12 December 2002 - 8:37 p.m.

I woke up this morning to a drunken email from Tinsel. You can just call me Chancellor Chase now, because someone at CoMputer U. missed me in her inebriation and decided to write. Aw.

It came at an interesting time insofar as it included a few bitchy statements about someone Gus and I happened to be dissing for several hours over the phone last night.

Also, coincidentally, after Gus told me he could take me wedding dress shopping next week, provided he wanted to, which he doesn't, so he can't, I spent the rest of the evening, until the wee hours, checking out gowns online thinking, "You know who would totally go dress shopping with me? Tinsel! Tinsel would never deny me the right to try on tulle!"

So, Tinsel ended up calling me today, and of course confirmed that she would, in fact, go dress shopping with me in January.

Not to bitch about Gus too much, but I was going to go with my mom over break, but my mom needs a hysterectomy and won't be able to get out of bed during my desired dress shopping period. Gus' solution to this is that I should go dress shopping with my dad.

Right.

Actually, that is not such a bad idea, insofar as my dad sort of picked out my prom dress. Not in the, like, "get the green one or you're grounded" sense, but that the one he liked best was the one I eventually picked.

Maybe admitting to that does not strenghten my argument for why Gus should want to take me dress shopping.

Mostly I'm just disappointed that I can't go with my mom, and the wedding dress is more the objective correlative sort of thing that is standing in for my anxiety over my mom's operation.

Raise your hand if you are tired of a.)my wedding, b.)literary theory, or c.)all of the above.

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: