who dat? contest.
(yo stee. i know
hong kong film actress
first correct answer:
A reader submitted this photo as a possibility (thank you Saundra), but I didn't check to see just how absolutely obscure this actress is. My bad.
left column will let you in pretty ladies, even if stee doesn't anymore.
After the weekend I just had, I simply don't feel like writing. I'm just chewing gum and listening to Radiohead and contemplating going home and going to sleep.
I told a friend that, and she sent me my horoscope for today. She wrote:
"A good friend has made you a very cool compilation tape. And it doesn't matter if Mars is in Saturn or if moons collide, it's always a good idea to go home and go to bed. Always."
Ha. That's the coolest horoscope I've been given in a long time. What a sweetheart.
So I think I might do that. Maybe I'll take a bike ride instead of sleeping. I don't know.
And it's not really work's fault per se, I just don't want to be here. But there is just this: Fuck This Place. Get me out of here. Someone. Hello? Hello?
ONE YEAR AGO TODAY: Woke up with a bluebird on my windowsill singing a little tune. I ran 10 miles, finding a 100 dollar bill lying on the ground at one point. My girlfriend Cate had already put coffee on when I got home, and we had sex then drank coffee and watched the Today show. I sang very loudly in the shower, hitting a high D for the first time ever. I shaved without a single cut and drove to work hitting only green lights. That was a good day.
Miss the beat, you lose the rhythm. And nothing falls into place. Only missed by a fraction. Slipped a little off your pace. The more things you get, the more you want. Just trade in one for the other. Working so hard, to make it easier. Got to turn, c'mon turn this thing around. Right now, it's your tomorrow. Right now, it's everything. Right now, catch that magic moment. Do it right here and now. It means everything... speaking of which. Right now, I've got heartburn. Right now, I'm waiting for Debra to bring me some Bromo and maybe an egg cream. Right now, I wonder if Marlon is thinking about me, the fat thoughtless goyem. Right now, my books languish in the $1 bin at Barnes & Noble. Right now, some grown-up kid, somewhere in his Manhattan townhouse, is wondering why no one plays stickball anymore and also wondering where Debra is with his fucking Bromo and his egg cream because what, does he have nothing better to do than to sit around wondering things when Marlon won't return my goddamn phone calls and no one reads good books, books that matter, anymore, and Starr Jones refuses to see me anymore and where the crap is my egg cream!? You know?
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