Wasn't drunken, but got a hold of her anyway. She didn't get to delight in my slurred "I loovthe thyou, Muhlittha." I can't tell you anything that delighted me so. Some shit will be fucked up. I can now sleep easily.

There's something I've been meaning to tell you, but it keeps escaping my grasp.

I love it when literature can make the most wrong-seeming and upsetting things perfectly okay, perfectly acceptable. It's like they work some kind of magic. Voyeurism becomes an act of love. Incest raises no reader's eyebrows. Infidelities are deeply empathized with.

My friend Sarah said once, as she lay exhausted in the easy chair in my room in Bangor, that it's never much fun realizing that life isn't much like art. She seems to think this is something we spend our lives doing. But she said that she liked me because I like to at least try to live like that isn't so. If by "art" you mean "bohemian squalor" well, then she's right. OK, maybe not "bohemian squalor."

Really, I have no pretentions of bohemian squalor, even though I pen the occasional piece of lousy prose, if you can imagine such a thing. Nothing particularly special or bohemian about it, just common really. There's been nothing special or free-love-esque about my behaviour, and I wouldn't want anyone to think I have delusions of it being otherwise. It's not that I really think that's inherently a bad thing, and maybe (probably) it's the stuff of good art. But of course, at the end, I'll never watch my life slide out of view and then dance and drink and screw because there's nothing else to do. Because if I called my dad...

Some critics have called Under Milk Wood not a utopia in the least, but a loveless place of boozing, cruelty and sex. Boozing and sex, check on that! But cruelty? I'm not sure. Not really Llareggub. Sometimes I feel that here is a very cruel place (and I'm not talking directly about my actions, but sometimes people are... strange. Cruel. I returned flowers given to me - I couldn't take it anymore, THEY ALL HAVE GIRLFRIENDS, I couldn't divert resources from his girlfriend and her spawn, I just didn't want it anymore, I wrote him a very nice, polite note that everyone on the corridor read - and he hung the flowers out his window. It freaked me out. Hardcore.)

Oh it is late and I am rambly, I am higher than wine after talking to Melissa, and I probably should go sleep so that I can work away on my essay. Modernism is my Friend.

"Because you are so beautiful." Oh, Finn, Finn, why are you so fictional? Why can't I have you, instead of the very respectable man I'm sure I'll end up with at the end of the day?

What do you want to know? There's nothing, at this point, that I couldn't tell you.

2003-05-12, Nothing at all

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