08 May 2003 - 1:39 a.m.

Dear Stan Zbornak,

Please stop wanking to my diary.

Love,

jpellecchia

P.S. I am eating furiously to try to get in my paper-writing zone. Cranky May (long story) is still probably getting hammered at the Ho's as I settle in for the home stretch of my southern lit. paper.

Followed immediately by my Fellini paper.

But the worst part is, I don't have a cute outfit for tomorrow. Much less two, cause I do likes to have me a school outfit and an after school outfit, and given that the last reading/reception combo is tomorrow night, I should try to look nice.

See, if I were writing my southern lit. paper and not a diary entry, this is where I would call my concerns "bourgeois."

But I am prepared in one respect. I do have on CD the lounge cover of "Hot For Teacher" I promised to bring to campus tomorrow, after Cranky May (I really am going to have to tell that story eventually, am I not?) and I discovered we have the same favorite line: "I don't feel tardy!"

I wish I could put into words the joy of watching Cranky May rock out on air guitar after chanting that line, but I don't even really feel like getting into the genesis of the name "Cranky May" right now, so fuck it.

What I'm wearing: Pink floral capri pants, white cotton shell

What I'm reading: "Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad..."

What I'm doing after this: Feeling ill after eating some leftover corn chowder, it would seem.