I think I have become terribly hateful. Now, when I get over my crushes, it is with a certain bitterness, perhaps the taste of only liking people who are not nice. Or who are too nice and are smothery. Or who really love you, but can't seem to stop fucking that other girl, but not because he's an asshole, just because he's so shocked that he can get away with this.

I finally met David Enos. How could anyone hate someone so boyish and adorable? But then, I am judging the book by its innocent looking exterior, and having trouble reconciling said exterior with the Palatucci-despising interior. Or wait, is the hate even real? God. Fuck, who even knows?

But have you looked at sexpigeon lately? Tag teased us a while back with the promise of commenting capabilities, and yet, this still has not come to fruition. But damn, that man comes up with such stellar fonts, and wonderful line drawings.

And you know what else? Nick Palatucci is a fucking master of verbage. You wouldn't know it from talking to him at a party and having him burn you with his cigarette, but damn, that Palatucci...I wanted to say something about how he strings words together in such beautiful ways, but I can't even put this in a form that is beautiful enough to do him justice. Not that I'm gushing or anything. Fuck that. Because you know, while sexpigeon is aspiring to new heights of awesomeness, those at tagpigeon, primarily Mr. Palatucci, are totally falling behind. I do not want you to think that they are tumbling down the mountain of Lame; tagpigeon maintains awesomeness, but its moments of awesomeness are few and far between these days. Kat, are you letting school and/or work distract you? Nick, does Mommy limit your computer time?

You know, I bought this leather jacket last year, and almost immediately after purchasing it, I became involved with the vegan, with whom I am somehow still entangled. I was wearing the leather jacket the other day -- out of my hippieliberal guilt, I only ever wear it to work or the theater, places where I am comfortable with my evilness -- and I thought about how Eric Ball gushed about it after I bought it. I wore it to Gabe's birthday party at Zeitgeist, I recall, and I had straightened my hair; this was, of course, when my hair was long enough for such flights of fancy. And Eric Ball, he unabashedly gushed. It was so nice. This was when we were just really starting to be friends again, so maybe he was really trying to drive the point home that he didn't hate me anymore. Or maybe the jacket really looks that good, and I'm doing the world a disservice in not wearing that dead cow with pride. And fuck, I bought those huge leather boots only a couple of months ago, and I feel no guilt wearing those! Somehow it's the combination of boots and jacket that really gets me. I feel like I'm wearing a cow suit.

And I'm in a terrible mood. We are all alone, terribly, terribly alone. I said this to someone yesterday who had just gotten really hurt and pissed off at me after he told me he'd missed me, and I told him I doubted that. This "offended" him. Then I told him we're all alone, all very alone. He said nothing.