I Now Need Botox.

I truly cannot believe we posted that last entry. I blame Kelly entirely.

I will leave it up, however, despite the strong urge to delete; because I can't dis mah homey like that.

And also 'cause it's all true.

I would like to apologize for mentioning SourBob's zit. I only did it because I too am sporting a large zit, and I felt that our mutual disfiguration forged a very special bond between us.

Two zits passing in the night.

Two pimples, calling to one another across a crowded room.

Two pores, ravaged by hormones, testaments to the burning passion of the people whose faces they mar...

I'm such a fucking romantic that I can hardly stand it.

Speaking of romance, Bridgeport Dude called again, and there was much rejoicing.

I must confess that the gruff-sounding message on his voice mail makes me feel a bit warm and squishy inside, but I'm still not sure whether or not this is something I want to pursue. I like the guy, but we are very, very, very different.

Variety is the spice of life, but too much variety might be akin to putting habaneros in the Bloody Marys.

That was a really stupid metaphor. Try this: Too much variety might be similar to... overuse of garlic salt? An abundance of coriander, a spice that I will never, ever understand how to use properly?

I really shouldn't try to think when I'm this tired.

Either way, Devil-May-Care Fun Jen says, "Yeah, go for it," while the deeply paranoid Bitter And Mistrustful Jen says, "Eh..."

Fun Jen is winning so far, but she usually doesn't pull through in the home stretch.

Plus, my heart belongs to SourBob.

I'm going to continue to make SourBob references until everyone who reads this site is thoroughly disgusted. I can already hear my URL dropping from people's favorites lists like a strangely tuneful series of concrete blocks.

It's only funny in my mind, but I'm enjoying it so much that I feel compelled to share.

Kelly graciously let my train-schedule-challenged ass crash on her floor last night, which was kind. Nothing like good Chicago hospitality. I was so pleased that I was on my best behavior. I didn't even fart in my sleep or have vocal, erotic dreams about SourBob.

What Kelly neglected to mention before extending this offer was that she owns a bloodthirsty psycho cat.

My hands are covered in scratches and teeth marks. At first it was cute. Awww. Wookit a wittle kitty. He is a cute kitty. He's white with brown patches, a skinny, squirrely-looking tail, and soulful eyes. Then he started gnawing more forcefully, purring all the while like a true sick bastard, and the soulful eyes became soulless.

Suddenly he was no longer Cute Wittle Kitty, he was Goddamn Little Fucker. That little hellion was going for an artery, and he wasn't going to stop until he had a little TranceMeat between his sharp little teeth.

I'm not exaggerating, either. I look like I stuck my hands in a meat grinder. My mother saw them and blanched. She probably thinks I lied about the blogger event and attended a strange S&M party instead.

I wish my life were that exciting.

This cat was a maniac, though. "Ziggy", my ass. Try "Hannibal".

I hope he's had his shots, or I'm going to sue Kelly. The first thing I'm going to demand is the before and after poster of Lon Chaney in her bathroom.

Kelly has cool stuff. I'm jealous.

I was really impressed by the reading. I was amazed that so many people showed up, humbled by the mad writing skills, and very surprised to see that many of the bloggers/diarists appeared to have the personality to back up the words.

It was fun. I plan to attend future events, providing SourBob's restraining order falls through.

I'm hoping that if I exhaust the joke, it will lose momentum, providing me with an easy opportunity to kill it.

While taking the always-fun and ever-ghetto-fabulous south shore train home today, a group of men in their thirties to late forties entered my car in a booming, boisterous kerfuffle.

These were some card-carrying Sout' Side, Bears-watching, Mike-Ditka-channeling sons of bitches. If they weren't all Polish, sausage-inhaling steelworkers, I will eat my steel-toed boot.

The oldest guy, who must have been just shy of fifty, turned to the mullet-headed bohunk behind him and said, "Heheheh. Pull my finger."

The rest of the men squealed like a troupe of Justin Timberlake fans and ran screaming to the other end of the car. It was priceless. I don't think I've ever seen men move that fast outside of a sporting arena.

I laughed so hard I nearly peed. The guy looked at me with that "Yeah, I'm a stupid guy" look, and I said, "Apparently your reputation is very impressive."

He laughed, and since a little encouragement is all I need to act really stupid, I inexplicably added, "You are powerful, young Jedi."

Blank stare. I picked up my book (which, by the way, is A Literate Passion - The Letters Of Anais Nin and Henry Miller, and everyone in the world should go read it right now, it's just fucking wonderful), and I hid behind it for the remainder of the trip home.

I haven't had much sleep, and it shows.

Happy Sunday.

1:30 p.m. - 2004-02-22
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