June 12, 1999

I Say, How Did That Wound Get On My Hand? (33 weeks ago)

Yesterday (though it is still subjectively today because I haven't slept yet) I accomplished the following things of vital importance:

- returned to "fairyland" (Dunbar + 51st, lots of lupins)
- imbibed far too much shoddy media
- resented a bank robber
- listened to funky music
- ogled a 15-year-old drunk bulemic girl who borrowed my "Dod" pin last month
- counted 1000 iterations of my new worry beads
- saw a dead crow
- legitimized my new journal.

in our last episode... | p_i-logs | and then, all of a sudden...

My 21st birthday. Unlike most in this country, I didn't spend the day drinking -- I can't stand alcohol. The taste makes me nauseated, and the chemical makes me go into a state resembling anaphylactic shock.

Instead, my friends Diana and Amy took me to T.G.I. Fridays, where, against my wishes, the staff sang to me and insisted that I stand on a chair with a ketchup bottle for a photograph.