Peter Pan's bitch

Ahh…nothing happened yesterday?

The music was loud and I laughed a lot.

I had so many things to say today. What were they?

My ex-whatsit stole my entire CD collection during our divorce proceedings. This was in 1992. I had a nice odd little library until that moment. So I’m slowly building it back up including things which disappeared in that untimely event.

Wendy was her name—her given name—and she was what I termed a “crazy art major girl.” Oh, and she was. That certainly fits the pattern, doesn’t it? Crazy, wounded emotionally; in fact she was somewhat of an emotional cripple when we met. This was before I became self-aware and I just thought her black lipstick was endearing.

If my history with women were a grain combine, I would have hurled myself into it about 23 times already. Trailer park girls…yeah…

Lads, if you meet a girl who has to invent an entirely new identity for herself, leave her to Seth Green. You don’t want any of that. Trust me. Especially if she, as part of this invention, ritualistically burned all her party girl clothes in some kind of demented backyard ceremony. Hey, I would have loved to have met the version of Wendy who snuck out of the house and performed on table tops at frat parties while she was still in high school. How come I don’t meet those girls, anyway? You know the kind—pants slung so low in the front that you can see the goody trail and almost where it leads you…where are you, party slut?