I realized that to write was to do the
extraordinary, and it makes me sad. Really, I am so bored., I can’t think of
the last time I did or heard about anything interesting; reading the Communist
Manifesto has saved me a bit. But one can’t expect the Marx/Engels spark in
everything.
I was worshiped in an SF bar Saturday
night. I was flattered to be called ‘gorgeous’ by the handsome friend of a
friend. He made the statement ‘my god, you’re beautiful,’ by what seemed like
an incredibly-surprised-to-see-a-pretty-girl-guy from Seattle, and ‘dollface’
by a man to whom I humorously referred as ‘Green’.
My ego is expanding. I have fallen in
love with myself and with those facets which make me so fucking charming.