Dear LJ,

I find it increasingly silly to discuss the events of my life on a public forum. Not because I am embarrassed or shy, but because I have lost my ability to find said events humorous. I am still the funniest person in the world, but I find no solace in my blog at this time.

There was a period where I would get to the end of a story and feel productive, invigorated, completely drained, vulnerable, capable. I'm still writing stories in my head, but they don't make it to my keyboard anymore-- such lingering moods have yet to find a way to be explained adequately. For example, how am I supposed to discuss the compromised situation of a desperate mix between Peter-Pan idealism and embittered estrangement who balances roles as sex object, care taker, friend, teacher, deranged lover and hates the very confinements that allow her to be a social animal without reducing myself to a banality?

My main goal for the next couple of weeks is to be the very best at everything in the world. In the meantime, I want to track down Brett Anderson and have his babies.



Plan of attack roughly includes: tracking him down, seducing him over spiked coffee, making out, starting to cry, explaining to him my troubles, him giving me a hug and telling me about his exciting life as a 90s icon, sex, then fleeing the country to get married.

On a final note, my brother is actually scared that I might meet some man and get married to him after two weeks of knowing him after having already been knocked up, which I think is a great compliment.

Your friend,
GCB