TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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05.14.03, wednesday night
Dancing to Os Mutantes on our slate-grey kitchen floor. Missing Fernanda, glamour-girl flown East to be a fashionista in NYC. Had a headache with the morning caw-fee and the apple strudel Jimmy nabbed from the factory. Dropped off an application at the Grand Lake Theatre. Considering some choices: mixing concoctions as an herbalist's assistant, typing for the Church of Scientology, or shoveling popcorn? Hmmmmmmm. And (eek) Giving in to Sasquatch and joined Friendster. Look me up under Phil. How many girls with the moniker of Phil exist? Kiss(ing); now mail me some Advil.