everybody complete the following sentence:

i spread peanut butter on my screwdriver and then I _______.

so tomorrow i'm supposed to hear from my agent and recieve an evaluation on "Demonic."
This weekend i'll be catching up on more Queer as Folk and working on my new book now called Homicidally Yours.
I have to finish "Lunar Park" now. Ten more pages........has anyone read Damien Echols' "Almost Home" I'm thinking about reading that next............

So I lied last time. Here's more Demonic. In case of confusion, the book is written in monologue form. This is from the viewpoint of Devin, the jock.

I couldn’t decide what I wanted to listen to. I was a few minutes from Betsy’s shabby apartment complex. I could see a few outdated cars pull out of the complex like ants crawling up from their hole. A five minute gunk of world news came over the radio:
A biblical art center was burning down in Dallas – kids were reportedly trapped in Christian chat rooms. I could make a foul joke for that shit – better instant message Jesus quick and ask him for help. Sharks had washed up on the shore at Rockaway Beach in New York, members of a football team in Arkansas had been accused of sodomy; and in Louisiana a swamp had dried up and a body was discovered on the bone-dry surface. Soon it would be time for “Is everything Ok in the UK?” referring to the recent London bombings. Then they’d cover the war in Iraq. “It has become clear that in this war, the frontlines are everywhere,” clarified the reporter.
Whatever, I was in the mood for something hardcore. I popped in Limp Bizkit’s first LP. I got up to it, ready to have a good night out. I loved their cover version of “Faith” by that queer eighties guy. They made it sound hard. I pulled into the complex. I was totally hyped up now. I could see the pool sparkling like a big diamond off by the shitty outhouse. I wanted to just skip dinner, take Becky there and bang the shit out of her. Or is it Betsy? Fuck, maybe I should figure that out. Maybe someone would call her and she’d answer and say, “Hi, this is so and so.” But who answered their phone like that? Who cared. Whores like her should wear nametags.
I parked under the balcony of 247. I looked up, hoping she was ready. I didn’t want to spend too much time trying to impress her mother. This would be the only time I’d ever come here, so what was the point? I got out and slammed the door. There was a little girl sitting on the curb dragging a rock along the sidewalk. She was trying to accumulate enough dirt to write her name in. This was what poor people’s children did on Thursday nights. I quickly skipped up the stairs, ignoring the little girl’s bored gaze. Dead plants lined the walls between 247 and 248. A porch light spurted out a sickly yellow light over the remaining guts of a smashed beetle. Becky’s door had one of those big metal handles to pull out and hit against the door. It was heavy and I wanted to rip it off and save it for tomorrow to use on Marhollow somehow. I just kept thinking about how it would be when we all ganged up on him and beat him senseless, seeing different parts of his body twitch, watching blood spurt out of his mouth and eyes, then finally seeing him go weak like a rag doll but we wouldn’t let up then. Don’t let up until there’s nothing left, that’s what I’d tell the guys tomorrow.
Betsy opened the door. She looked like a black egg. The black dress she had on wrapped her up too tight, some kind of thin cheap material. Her waitress outfit didn’t hug her so much; it never let me know that she was actually fat. She almost looked like a different person entirely. She wanted some kind of affection. I gave her a hug that was more just like a few pats on the back. Maybe if I got drunk enough, I could get hard enough to fuck her. I went inside. The place was overly air conditioned. I didn’t even take my jacket off. Becky had at least four cats. One slept in a chair that was covered with cat hair. The others were displayed on the sofa. I started sneezing. I hated cats. The sofa and chairs did not match. They didn’t buy room sets; they picked out single pieces of furniture. Maybe they even bought them used.
“Are you thirsty?” she asked.
“Yes.” I wasn’t, but I wanted to see her walk away from me. I wanted to check her ass out.