My arches are aching up here on the high-wire. I do the daily strip for the big man in the clouds but it's getting kinda lonely so I'm plotting my own demise. The weight of candy apple breath smells too heavy for those cirrus strokes. My telic stretch mimics that one Brancussi bird-set; bird on a live wire is the title of my new auto-cannibalistic project. Cibo Matto is playing on my itunes and the thunderstorm is finally here. I'm planning on visiting friends in N.Y next week with my ex-girlfriend and her new girlfriend…mmmm. Life is good on the 'Isle of Lesbos;' the nickname I've given for the utopian bubble I live in that is an all-woman's college. Hundreds of beautiful lesbians abound and I realize slowly that I have too many boyfriends.