2004-04-02 / 12:30 a.m.

Nice to write a poem in five minutes; nice to write one at all. I'm worried about subject matter; no more whining about the exboytoys but I'll be damned if I haven't latched onto another theme. I'm tired of sick words and hospital stories and nightmare recountings. I need a mental enima. But how?

Also, my fucking granmother forgot my birthday. My grandmother, for Christ's sake. Obviously Bob forgot it too, and while that is more emotionally upsetting, "Mama" is the check-writer in the family and I sure would like to have more than $11.56 in the bank; that would be goddamn fabulous. Whose grandmother forgets her birthday? That's so lame.

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