12 November 2003
I spent my 30th birthday in my third floor apartment with a bunch of people. Israeli Girl brought me a triceratops pinata, and around midnight I smashed it with one of the crutches from when I was run over.
I should have made a pass at Israeli Girl then and there. You would have been the love of my life, Izzy. I understand that now. Whoops-a-daisy. I made a pass at Kathryn Diane instead. It's like this: I have a permanent hard-on for lower middle-class women, even though their social betters, the bourgeoise women, present themselves to me psychologically (for reasons of status) as the loves of my life.
On the couch, I drunkenly told a small group of people that I was now in love with someone new. I wasn't even thinking of either of the above women. When it rains, it pours. That's why I can't get laid; I'm too polite to juggle. I want mommy.
By the end of the night, I was lying smack on my back on the floor competely knackered and slime-drunk listening to Deserter's Songs. Jack and the Socialists tucked me into bed.