17 April 2003 - 1:09 a.m.

Even when somebody calls your writing "precious," even when someone buys you a drink at a bar and it's not a handsme stranger but one of three uniformly unattractive dudes, even when you deconstruct an entire person only to find he's pitting you against someone else, even when the wrong people tell you they love you in your dreams, even when someone's idea of a critique is to sketch a woman's face on your paper, even when you are an incurable tart with no money and a bad hair day, life can just be almost criminally lovely, can't it?

Because for every "percious" person there is a professor who will tell you your tiny prlogue is good enough to be a novel on its own. For every lecherous drink buyer there are four people who will walk you out, singing "Wasted Time" into beer bottles and talking unashamedly about sexuality. And every person who is worth deconstructing is worth a million other things, maybe worth his weight and gold if he complains about his back pain all day and risks more of the same by opening a window for you when you're just too hot and weak to manage it yourself. And there is no accounting for dreams. And every good critic is worth ten bad ones, and you've got Jack and Jenn, haven't you? And even when you are an incurable tart with no money and a bad hair day, there is nothing, nothing in the world that can convince you that life is anything other than criminally lovely.

What I'm wearing: Just a white slip (temperature's gone up)

What I'm reading: traffic

What I'm doing after this: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz