I hate you, barbeque.

Our Guitar Player makes the best dinner conversation. Topics included the logistics of being raped by Care Bears, and how he used to root around on his carpet in desperate pursuit of cocaine, and try to get small animals stoned. Also, I figured out that his new speech patterns are identical to those of his Woman, which is sort of sweet.

My mother and I went to a terrible barbeque place to hear Our Banjo Player play his mandolin. I ate some terrible cowflesh, while Our Guitar Player ate the 5 Meat Plate, or "meat salad," as he called it (we identified turkey, chicken, beef, and pork, but the fifth remained disturbingly unnameable). I went home and fell asleep, only to be woken by my stomach stabbing me with tiny sharp knives. So I've sort of been trying not to puke for the past three hours, and distracting myself by reading about how Dominic Monaghan is quite the homosexual, and how anyone who says otherwise is in denial. I think I'll become a vegetarian.

I've been listening to a mix lately that's mostly Cat Stevens, Joy Division, and A Tribe Called Quest. It blends suprisingly well.

Should I dye my hair dark? Not crazy omgimsogoth dark, just closer to my natural colour.