jesus christ. i spent an hour last night constructing an intelligent update to this space, filled with literary genius and subtlety of tone and, yes, enough drunken angst to choke a good-sized horse. not that i would want to choke any sized horse. i'm a pacifist, and a vegetarian to boot.
but, anyway, i hit post, the button that would send my words into the aether of this interweb, and it did, alright; so far into the aether that they will never to be seen again.
dammit.
but it was all about how all the letters i've been meaning to write have been writing themselves in my head, while my body runs around doing everything else and i can't seem to get enough time to myself. it's a little frustrating. and it was all about tough new england women, and perceptions of regional loyalty, and how i miss san francisco. particularly, how i miss the queers and the perverts and the nellies. but, at the same time, it is good and important to be here. if only i can find some time to sit down and write letters.
cosmo found an old typewriter up in the house in blandford, the house where i spent the first five or so years of my life, on and off. we can't tell who it used to belong to, my uncle charlie, or my great uncle tony, or any number of other relatives who have recently passed on or moved away. cosmo fixed it and oiled it and bought me a ribbon. he's a good egg. so, i have this beautiful old typewriter at my disposal while i am here. typewriters don't erase your words while you're still composing them. they don't hurt your eyes, or annoy you with their incessant hum. so, what the hell am i still doing here, online?
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