my grilfiend in chicago just dumped me and work out here in The Golden State (my ass, it hasn't stopped raining in a week) has been a bit much, so i've been preoccupied. and, in fact, very depressed. i don't know how to write anymore and i may in fact be on the verge of complete emotional collapse, perhaps a fugue state is in the making. i guess i could write about what i gleaned from a friend's gory (gory: Pronunciation: 'gOr-E, 'gor- Function: adjective Inflected Form(s): gor·i·er; -est Date: 15th century 1 : covered with gore : BLOODSTAINED) and splashing discovery of a snaggletoothed hooker's cervical clot this past weekend... but that's not MY story. i could also write about the inconsistencies in many a woman's notion of "love." more specifically, i could write about the inconsistencies in my new ex-grilfiend's notion of "love" or even better, her notion of "reliability" (hint: reliability = you are fun and great and thoughtful and giving and you just took me to costa rica, but i've been thinking -- and i've been listening to my loveless and embittered, lawyer-chasing, slut friends and unemployed, alcoholic mother lately -- and came to the conclusion that you don't make enough money since i got my raise). i could write about these things if i only had some clarity, peace or perspective; but i don't have the will -- or i'm just too nauseated -- to even jerk off...