Hey! I didn't have to sign in! Sweet.

What a wonderful, wonderful world.

qB archived that story that Devon read and was, darling about. She put it here. It's just a, thing. qB and I had this discussion:

Alestar: Oh, hey.

Cubes: Hey.

Alestar: um-- stupid thing. When you have a chance, or not, if you don't, 'cause it's stupid . . but when I was formatted the story for this psuedo-hypothetical website of my own I've been working on . . I changed the last line to "Listen. We do alright." What do you think?

Cubes: I like it. Hold up, I'll change it.

Alestar: Thanks. I just, I couldn't read "hey, hey" without thinking of. I don't know, a dance routine.

Cubes: Done. I can see that. Though a period coulda worked, too.

"Hey. Hey."

No. That's the same.

Hey! Hey!

Hey!

Ho!

Hey!

Alestar: But the period makes it look like he's trying to get his attention. Like, "hey." And then again, "hey."

Although, you're right. Definitely room for a "ho" in there somewhere. Maybe the next story.

Logan turns to Victor with soulful eyes.

"Lissen, ho."

Cubes: Victor then smacks him upside the head and says, "Who you callin' a ho, runt?"

Logan grins. "Pimps up. Ho's down."

Alestar: *cackles*

Another thing about this story-- the basis is, evil artificial intelligence The Matrix-like guys have taken over North America, and stuff is bad. But, the problem with my art is, AI looks suspiciously like Al in Arial, or whatever the default font is. And I can't Logan making some offhand remark of the Al factory. And the evil Al.

Why Vic woulda been throwing down with Al, if that's it.

'Cause why would Vic through down with Al? Al is his most sumblime supporter. except, spelled right. Sublime. woo.

My neck aches like a motherfucker. Everybody's heading to bed early tonight. Maybe it's a Tuesday thing.

I have a candle burning to the Mother Mary. I have a fixation, ever since the New Year, which we rang in with the candle of some saint. I can't remember the saint. You guys remember the saint?

St.Catherine?

I had this dream last night. I was macking on this older woman-- sexy, whew. And we kept trying to be alone, but my little siblings kept popping up. So I called this guy that I knew . . and, on reflection, it seems that he might have been one of the Queen's Guard, but I called him and he said he'd come watch the kids.

So he came over and I was talking to him . . we were in the hallway. And I went back into the room where the lady was, and my brother was in there, and the lady was smoking pot. And I was like, what the FUCK. You're smoking pot in front of my little brother.

And she was like, I smoked pot in front of all my children. Are you saying I'm a bad mother?

And I said, YEAH. And I woke up yelling at her.

That's a weird dream to have, isn't it? Later, I had a dream about Justin Timberlake and I hanging out at a weird water massage parlor. so, it's all good.

But, man, she was really hot.

Listening to the song "Lucky" destroys my will to live. I'm sorry, Daisy. I know you kind of dig it.

I'm going to listen to Ini Kamoze's "Lyrical Gangster" to cleanse myself.

Cut to fade is me: fade to cut is she. "Come juggle with me," I say, everytime.

Here comes the hotstepper, murderer. I'm the lyrical gangster, murderer. Dial emergency number, murderer. Still love you like that, murderer.

Oh, yeah. I'm feeling the love. Lucky, my ass. I know lucky. Start like a jackrabbit, finish in front of it. On the night is jack, that's it, understand?

My throat hurts. I need to hit the sack.

um.

I'm still writing that imaginary letter to Josh Chasez in my head. And I didn't tell you guys this, 'cause I'm weird about updating this thing, but I found the guys home addresses. Some of them aren't current anymore, but, y'know.

I may also have accidentally put those addresses into my address book.

So.

That reminds me of something else. Tan traumatized me utterly with this. Groupie Central is what it is. With all sorts of gross, depraved stories about the *nsync boys, told my supposed groupies. The only one I still like with a pure, unsullied affection is Lance. Who, according to the (female) groupies, was just never interested. Big surprise there, I'm sure.

Now: Lance probably does lots of crazy lush shit with anonymous boys. I know. But, but-- maybe he doesn't. Maybe he only does it out of loneliness, and frustration because he's very much in love with his completely inacessible bandmates, and has to release with some faceless one else. and not because he's a star, and woooo, bring on the crazy life!!

God, I'm such a sap. I want sweetness. I need it. UuuuuNNNGH. No wonder I get no 'spect.

In other news, I memorized a poem today, while washing dishes. The title is something like, "WHAT IS NEVER LOST" and the poet's name is Catherine something, I think. I'll find out tomorrow, and tell you. Promise.

But.

Well, each of us is prone to disarray.
I am always set for a disaster
knowing one will come and it will stay

until it has destroyed me in some way.
I save gold ribbons, purple alabasters.
Well, each of us is prone to disarray.

And then there are the plagues to keep at bay
by stocking gatorade and mustard blasters.
I'm sure the plague will come and it will stay

and all the ones I love will pass away
or come too close and make me a Jocasta.
Well. Each of us is prone to disarray.

The stock market will crash-- perhaps today
so I can't go when you go to Alaska.
The breadline's soon to come and it will stay.

I pile up, ward off, eat down to allay
the fears of death and loss I cannot master.
Well, each of us is prone to disarray
not knowing when or where or why or who will stay.

Sex.

Night, y'all.

--Alestar,
did I say I'm da slickest dey is?