(diaryland) April 27, 2001 - 3:30 p.m.

I am writing this at work. I am writing this so it looks like I am doing work. I am writing this so my boss will not give me more work. I am writing this with an intense look on my face. I keep biting my lip. I pause for effect. I scroll up and down. I save and then pause again. I smell like orange and grapefruit, I�m cold, my boss eats my bread, and I�m half-past three. The only thing I have going for me is my innate sense of Fridayness.

Also, I made up a poem today.

This is the poignant story of a forty-three-year-old motor mechanic who stared at the Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar for too long one day.

please pinup please

nordic sensation
tapestry hair-weave
national front.
I�d never seen someone.
so harsh     sunlight
on the hair filmy
& foam
twist-top
hey babe are you fumigating me
handy carry-case
how can you be so picturefine
[ � � lay lady
� � � time can do so much? are you still mine � �  ]
hope you leave,
rigorous touching