I'm turning 29 this Saturday. I guess I'm supposed to take stock, inventory in my life. But I won't. I won't, because responsibility isn't on my agenda. What is on my agenda? Sit-coms tonight. Sit-coms followed by a sugar induced coma. The little bastards next door are selling fund-raising candy. And I'm buying it, baby. Miss White Trash 2001 is giving me my birthday haircut tomorrow. I'm doing my birthday drinking all week. I've got to line up a birthday lapdance soon. Absolutely nothing worth mentioning here, except that sometimes people check in to this site strictly for something to read. Oh, if you drive by Powell's Books in Portland, look at the name on the marquee: Diana Abu-Jaber is doing a book signing. Ms. Abu-Jaber gave me a c+ in a creative writing class because I wouldn't revise the first draft of my story. If I write something, there it is. I don't second guess myself (unless I was drunk when I wrote it, not an uncommon phenomenon during the Jam Magazine days) when I write something. There's no final draft and director's cut... this is it, baby. So, she's a successful published author, but she'll likely be best known for giving me an average grade in writing.
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