I have nothing interesting to say right now. I'm becoming a boring, sappy bitch. Life is treating me well, so I guess I should quit complaining and enjoy the shit while it lasts.

I gave my sister a reading list today. I'm still working on all of your recommendations, but right now I am polishing off On The Road for the first time, ever. That's right, not only have I never read it, I've never read any Kerouac. Mostly because people who want to be Literary always fucking drop Beat names and then change the subject to how many drugs they've done. But I had a writing professor tell me that I wrote like Kerouac, so I figured that I'd better read the shit so I can find out how to stop.

I'm being a wiseass. It's good. I do think it's overrated, though. And that I'd be much more flattered if someone told me I wrote like Jean Genet. I feel the same way about Bukowski--I like what I've read, but I think I've read better. Among other writers I think are better: Jeanette Winterson, Yukio Mishima, Joyce Carol Oates, and JT Leroy (yes, I know the last one is just too hip for words--but fuck you all, he's wonderful). I'm also on my second book of Lester Bangs's writings, and I adore it.

Tomorrow I think I'm going to talk about tattoos with my artist. Woo. Oh, and J. & N.'s band may be playing, so I'll have to do that. Maybe Steve will be able to come--'twould be rad.

My sister went to Europe and brought me back Communist paraphenilia from Prague and hot toddy mix from Scotland. But I already make a kick-ass hot toddy without mix. Am I that much of a drunk?

Want to know how cheesy Steve and I are? I replied to an email he sent me in the middle of the night, and signed it "xo." He writes back:

"I noticed I only got one xo instead of the usual xoxo. Have I been demoted?"

God.

I also listened to the Moulin Rouge soundtrack today.

I need to get some real writing done.