Semioanalysis Discotheque
Saturday, February 28, 2004
 
I have decided this will be an exhibitionist diary of my innermost desires, like stamping on your flesh in the guise of old men's toe fungus. Make my limbo, Kubla kahn striptease at Au Bon Pain!
 
I notice my friend Tim Peterson has a new weblog. I think he takes himself far too seriously, but then what do I know? I'm just a two-dimensional projection out of somebody's navel. Le idea fixee comes to deport me in the morning, when ratchets and chiffon chat in hushed tourniquets.
 
Your "Legally Blonde 2" makes me vomit, as this weekend I discovered upon giving into my morbid fascination with visiting the state of Connecticut, where values of your Eighties decade still reign. Jostled by the members of the bus around me, the untimely shrill voice of Reese Witherspoon caused a disruption in my stomach whereupon I spewed chunks of partially digested matter across the other passengers. This actually happened. Just now. Hey look, there goes the lead singer from that Rush cover band, strong-arming me into a little crepe with beady eyes. "Just between us" misses this diet restriction, however. In fact, Il peut, all given circumstances drawing you up to me and my puke-breath. Camera muscles on the edge of my eyelids fake a Coca-Cola red, children of Marx and Sox!

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