2003-11-18 - 4:53 p.m.
dear diary,
yes i know you want that burned cd list but there is a little shame in admitting i've only burned four of them today and instead wasted three hours trying to get different stolen versions of the sims to work on my computer.
which inevitably ended up with my computer taking a massive dump.
but i'm here now, and that's what really counts. and why is it impossible to find recorded versions of this american life?
is no one else in this world suffering through a massive ira glass crush?
so there big z*, this american life interspersed with kerouac and lonely sax solos and ginsberg screaming through some effigy and bukowski swearing like a sailor with dashes of blonde redhead, overdoses of interpol, thoughtfully stolen new shins songs and david cross, audience cheers, audience jeers, and the incredibly embarrassing unmarked cd of folk songs to only be listened to in the dark on the road with streetlights whipping and the volume set at 2.
you'd think i'd be more ashamed of that soft cell slash wham cd i just burned but i'm beyond that now.
you put the boom boom into my heart.
*i asteriked you because this marks the second occasion i've ever addressed anyone other than my dear diary. if that doesn't coat you in warm fuzzies you're a robot.