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.

sure i put down 'oriel college, oxford england' on my resume but i don't think a little stint at oxfjord is gonna do the trick; i know, i know, tricks are for ponies and hookers so i join the ranks of the proud and few. but just fer kicks, in the margins i scribbled 'special skills' and mentioned my karate black-belt, my talent for escaping a straight-jacket and my jolly good aim as a marks-woman. [card-carying member of the n.r.a. mutha fuckers] i lied about changing tires with my teeth at nascar though. i fucking lied on my goddamn resume. i'm gonna burn.
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Hello... I am bad at introductions but as a kid I always got invited to sleepovers cause I told the best ghost stories and played 'daddy' with expertise. I think these same characteristics recommend me in adulthood and they have now flourished into my love of writing pulp-ghoulish narratives and well, playing Daddy with expertise. What can I say; I'm a kid at heart.