d-i-s-c-o. i a m w a a a t c h i n g his head drop. UP! red shirt wannabe lover boy tells him my name. i whisper to a girl that a man is about to hit on me and i want it. he is the man from the valiant thore... is that the name? hmm. hott. really. mm. hello? oh and yes? me meme. i can't really hear him, as i am slanging my my way to the tip tip top of the ole' libido tree and i'm gettin' there. yeah, i'm to the top, looking back down, and in less than a year i see that we are fucking backstage somewhere. it seems our bands have played together and my fingers smell like pussy and keyboard and that hinders you and you stick it to me. alright. so my drink is ordered and i fly. he is so mine. jon and i are wanted by everyone. 4 girls come up to our table... four, that i don't know. "that dress! you always have the best of fashion!" and i want to puke and i want to vomit, and jon asks me why? don't you think that is a nice thing to say? and i reply. i say, no. jon. that is not the nicest of things to say. i say: this is raleigh north carolina. raleigh. raliegh. ok. and see, there i have made a point, because the i is before the e, and it still looks the same. taste test: atlanta, atlanta, atlamta. new york, new york, now yirk. so point proven, i tell him how i wore the dress because what i really wanted to wear was unfindable. not unclean or wrinkled [well maybe] but just plain unfindable and how if i wore: a black ripped up tank top out of my father's tennis and yard work drawer, a pair of plaid boxer shorts, and high heels, that there WOULD mos DEF be a chick sporting the party in a month. and i just don't get it. i want to be fashionable, yes. i admit. i look for threads that i would be very comfortable wearing in front of my favorite designers or artists, but these people don't know me. it's a bar. jon told me there are billions around the world, these bars... i would like him to tell the folks at the jackpot. do they know? do i know? hmm. yes i like attention. i argue. jesus. i do. but from her? and why does the cute and quiet solemnesque friend of charles and drew with no name look and not talk? why do i just walk by his shoulder and whiff a tiny bit of perfume his way, sending out my digits morse code style, through the stillettos on the tappy floor? does he get it?

well, this is a lot to be thinking about when it is 2:30 pmsomething and there has been no breakfast and it is raining and my clothes are all gone.

omg for readers in raleigh:

something interesting: one of my favorite writers/friends/socialites ever in my life, jon leon, is here from atlanta to do a reading of smutty drunken fashion poetry about things that you might not understand, but it's the only way you can look cool at 9pm tonite. BASEMENT STUDIOS. 300 glenwood ave... yeah, totally be there. i am going, and i am giving a few of the kids rides. it's smut, folks.

i just hate saying: folks, readers, you.. in my diary. so there.