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2004-02-24 | 6:26 p.m.
my brain feels as though it is wrapped in several layers of cotton. I'm fairly lucid, but my motor skills are practically non-existent. I tried running up some stairs and my legs simply gave out completely. Talking about myself incessantly reminds me of the gender genie, this program which purports having the ability to guess one's gender based on a very interesting algorithm. Apparently girls use more pronouns. I am mystified by my gender. Whenever I'm around them, I'm puzzled by a dazzling burst of passionate head-cocking and lip gloss, and their apparent suspicion of people with strangely pale skin and an oddly unhistrionic way of speaking. I have trouble talking to them without the lovelies sighing deeply and picking at their manicures. Of course I'm just exaggerating. How could I hate women? My mum's one.

Tomorrow is the thirty-fourth anniversary of Rothko's suicide. I was also surprised to learn that Humphry Osmond, the guy that coined the term 'psychadelic,' died this month.

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