The Virginity Lost

Here I am scribbling my thoughts for the very first time. The trend of blogging has caught up with me. Who am I, what do I do, what is my purpose? I can't tell, but what I can tell right now is that I am probably Monica Vitti...or Jeane Moreau...or maybe both. I am tragicomical, I am a character right out of Kafka's own ramblings. I am Woody Allen. I am Morrissey. I am Steinbeck and Kazan. I am Plato. I am Pandora. I am Jean Marais.

They all pulse through my veins, eventually reaching my heart, my brain.

Today was rather dull, and as long as it stays that way, all shall be well. My plan for the future-make a lot of money,
cheat people into thinking I have depth
get a transvestite to play keyboards for my band
figure out what I am to do with my hair
move to Los Angeles, then sit on Sunset Blvd and weep.

It's all perfect. All makes perfect sense.
I smell like Laszlo's dead sea mud soap. It's a good thing.
And it's a very, very good night.