Dear Diary,

This week’s been a living hell. As you know (via my entries on September 23, 2006, and September 45, 2007), I don’t have terribly good luck with women. There are gaps in my understanding and about women and in things regarding them. I know that when I see a beautiful gal, my hormones take control, but I feel like I rely on them too much. I can’t talk to girls, and when I do, there are major lapses in judgment on my part that build walls, buildings, and eventually towers, between me and the unfortunate soul I’m boring with my quasi rhythmic narcissism and vanity. I know myself! I know I have morals! But when I have to converse with women, [they] melt away exposing the popsicle stick that is my psyche. I feel as if I’m performing, on a social stage (if you will). I burn myself every time. I know they’re looking for mental and anatomical stability, and that’s what I try to project, but I feel as if I give off borderline homosexual and quirkily charismatic flavors that the modern women doesn’t have the palate for.

Let’s say I trick a woman into regular contact with me. How do I know I like her? What am I looking for? What’s important? What qualities does she need to possess in order for a loving of book loving people person like me to latch on? How do I get past the fact that she isn’t the face of beauty? What if she has baggage, or smokes, or is an alcoholic? These issues pound about inside my mind, reducing my self-image to a pile of ash. I am a post Henry Rollins Black Flag record. I am the existence of the existence of the fact that Kris Kringle isn’t real. I am depression on a Sunday afternoon. I am sitting by the phone on a Saturday night. I am loosing things. I am finding out that your favorite band is on your mainstream friend’s mixtape. Iam

Show me how to act and be apathetic, tough, connected, funny, angry, intellectual, oafish, a sellout, a success, a failure, the opposition, the devil’s advocate, a singer, a comedian, a talk show host, a poet, a raconteur, an activist, a man.

Give me a sign. I need someone to father my weak relations with women.

Confiadentially, Buster Bloodvessel