the first song I've ever tried writing

is locked in, as of this moment. Beatrice has problems with some of the lines, but doesn't understand the approach I've taken to it, a tongue-and-cheek satire of our shared experiences with a corporate video production office. He assures me, nonetheless, that it's an indie runaway hit.

I don't know how accurate his judgment of ground-level songwriting/musicianship is, but I'm flattered all the same. He and Karfilov both have begun to amuse themselves with song titles and lyrics, and some of their work actually gives me hope. Beatrice has currently discarded any ambitions that involve actual mastery of an instrument, instead yielding to his appropriate calling as the Singer. I still wish he would sit at the drum set, which collects dust in our moldy basement, but he'd rather shine a light into our pool of limited resources and see who foolishly surfaces. For my part, I can bang a bar chord, which in time will blossom into bigger and better things. Without sounding too self-serving, I'd also like to add that my own lyrics are capable of complex rhymes and rounder thoughts, but I might be speaking too soon. I'm the only one that's put living music to anything, at any rate.

i turned in a paper today, and began to doubt it as soon as the subject fell into the classroom's open forum. We'll see about this.

I had a strange dream last week involving two black widow spiders. They were both male, even though one was black and red, like the female. They were homosexual, wrapping a web tight around them like lovers under a comforter. I wonder exactly what this means. Taken literally, these were two of a specie of spider, engaged in a coital act that naturally means the death of the lesser. In this case, though, there was no female to complete a mortal transaction. It was a beautiful thing to dream, in HD, but when I came to the details left me puzzled. There were other, more significant dreams that night, but I don't remember them anymore.

I still haven't had the courage to order from Honest Tom.

A revelation! The joke is, or has been, that the world's best golfer is a black man, while the world's best rapper is white. Funny, because it reverses heartily established stereotypes. Forty years ago, however, the world's best rapper was white, too (Bob Dylan), while the world's best guitar player was a black man. I think guitar is more badass, but that doesn't mean that a multi-million dollar Nike contract won't get a man laid just as quickly. Karfilov and Mao were quick to point out that Tiger Woods is half-Asian, but I don't feel like this is a big deal to whoever made the original, witty, observation.

I am embroiled in an internet game, which I am too ready too admit. But I've spent more time with my computer lately, though she's not happy with me. Neither is Lovely, who I haven't seen in over a week. We talked for a long time last night. Over the course of our conversation she slipped slowly away, because she was drunk. But there may be hope for us yet.

The second song I'll ever try writing may be about her.