I made a mini-pact with myself to post something every day in order to amble out of the howling maw of ambivalence that threatens to have me permanently bug-eyed on the couch watching Hogan Knows Best and muttering about how I coulda been a contender, but it's fuckin' hard when the only thing you want to write about its yourself.

To that end, I provide an extract of the daily correspondence I engage in with my favourite country squire, Mr Leon. We keep ourselves sane by talking about girls, boys, haircuts and Tamagotchis.

I wonder if my permanent flip out/paranoia about such things as sex and relationships is just programming. Like, I'm not doing it right if I'm not obsessing or wringing my hands over some part of it. Maybe, when I'd rather think about my family or puppies or the insane new car sitting in our garage, I'm thinking about what I'm always thinking about, which is some permutation of 'nobody loves me, I hate/love/hate/love/hate/love/hate/love you all, I wear black on the outside because black is how I feeeeeel on the inside, take me out toniiiiight, frankly, mr shankley.'

Journey of a 1,000 miles begins with one stepcakes.

I've been reading about how to improve one's handwriting. It's thoroughly pleasant.