[Run your lips across your fingers 'til you find some scent of yourself]
I worked a day shift today, and got off in time to watch the sun set in my rearviewmirror (tm Pearl Jam). I wasted my evening but at least it was mine to waste.

I've started reading some book about women's bodies as creative fruit-baring vessels with a reservoir of stuff to write about. It's a little corny; the fruit metaphor wears dangerously thin at points and the heavy emphasis on ritual and mythology just makes me feel like a new-age crazy, but it's got some interesting writing exercises that are bound to come out funny if not poignant. For example, to get started, I am to take a mango and ogle it for a bit, smelling it and feeling it up, then slice it up and sensuously break one of the slices in half, reveling in the juices running everywhere. And then I'm supposed to smear it on my face or something. I can't imagine sitting down to write after that experience. I would have to wash that shit off of my face and hands lest I stain my immaculate white keyboard. I think I, along with much of my generation, am too far removed from nature to go back now. It's time to evolve. Brainpans, ho!