Angels and ministers of grace defend us.
Jewel says "ta-tas" in track two.

She lived beneath a disco discount store, with pictures of Randy Newman scattered all across the floor.

I want to write poetry that rhymes. And sometimes I just want to write poetry. Most of the time I feel as if I'm chasing it down, waving my notebook and shrieking at it. It's like a skittish horse. Sometimes it says that it wants to behave itself, come in, sit down, eat some take-out Chinese, watch Trading Spaces with me. And before I know it, it's taken over my brain like a house guest that has overstayed her welcome, the one that watches annoying movies and eats your ice cream and forgets to give you messages when she shouldn't have been answering your phone anyway.

And I'm sorry that I walked in on you unexpectedly. Sorry I didn't serve you both chamomile tea.
Do you want me like I want you?

I don't think Jewel has a swerve that could tempt anyone to sway.
But really. I'm sorry that my heart breaking ruined your day. But sometimes it be that way.

Oh, yes. I forgot to say something.
Vanessa Carlton. Vanessa Carlton. How can it be that she and Michelle Branch are not long lost sisters? The wonderflicity of them strikes me dumb.

Somehow these posts are becoming less about relevancy and more about my hands smelling like Pearberry antibacterial hand wash from Bath and Body Works. Sometimes these entries are about what a good book White Oleander by Janet Fitch is, and how I think Jory should read it, since he chain-smokes books and I think he would have a crush on Astrid because she could kick his butt.
Sometimes these entries are more about run-on sentences than anything else.

I just noticed that it's been exactly a week since I last posted. That makes me feel mathematical and precise.
I think I'm going to go shower now.

Lorina, Lorina, I miss you like I miss the summertime. That could be a song, y'know. It probably already is. I find myself stealing other people's ideas and never even knowing it.