25 June 2002 - 10:25 p.m.

It occurs to me that I really ought to say something about packing, for a couple of reasons. For one, my earlier entry was a tad lackluster. For two, packing usually precedes the wet and naked portion of the evening.

Packing is a little disheartening because I own so much incrdibly useless shit. I spent last night rolling my cat-related salt-and-pepper shaker collection, my duck and ducklings measuring scoops, my aprons, etc. in plastic and arranging them in a Smirnoff box. Because if alcohol has one virtue, it's the boxes in which it's packed.

I don't have a shower, by my kitchen is a treasure trove of 1950s knicknacks. I can't decide whether or not my life is completely meaningless, or that much better given that the material possessions to which I am so attached are damn cute, all.

Almost everything that I packed last night is a perfect example of stuff I should be storing in my parents basement instead of hauling down to Roanoke in my limited car space, but it will be hauled nonetheless. I gues sin the same way you can't pick who you love, you can't pick what possessions you'll actually care about. I have one sheet. It has a hole in it I could care less. But don't even breathe on my "Let's all have a pink pussycat!" drinking glass.

Bartender, make my shit useless, please.

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: