I like to think of myself as living in a somewhat self-created sane world in which my house maintains an air of pastoral peacefulness and in which I do my laundry on a regular basis, but all of this is disturbed when my sister brings a gaggle of her girl friends over. I'm always somewhat bothered when I peek around corners and see them tugging their shirts down, manically applying lipstick, hypnotically staring at themselves in the mirror. They treat their bodies like products that are in need of virulent marketing strategies. Some of sam's friends passionately hate each other behind backs but act so adoring to the face, so gentle, so convincing that I am quite certain that I am harboring the next marlene dietrich in my house. I am hesitant to make generalizations; it's impossible to summarize anyone. I suppose that men are just as bad. Women sell, men buy, we have sex and make babies and get high and distract ourselves. Now I am being completely petulant. However, I don't want to be distracted any longer and that is why you are cordially invited to a small, quiet wedding between myself and the surprisingly humble Sergei Rachmaninoff. His eye sight isn't in the best condition, poor chap, but at least I'm assured that my personality has something to do with the deep, cerebral love between us. Bring red wine!

PS -- Today is Scottie's birthday; he is 26. I accidently kicked him in the testicles on his last birthday which is precisely what I am not going to do this time. Happy birthday, Scottie Jack! I'm sorry that I straight-up made you sterile!

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