boob.

dear gay lovesickened homo,

stop gushing on about ridiculous brain chemistry and the fools it makes of us. love like becky's is totally for gays. it's a gooey brain chemistry facade that is doomed to wane, and when it does, she'll look back in horror, embarrassment and regret at what a boob she was to have ever spread for whatever lame ass she's moist over now. sadly, by that time she will already be on a lease with him/infected with his syphelis/waiting for him to pay her back $400/etc.

(wait - is she reading this? er . . . 'cause i mean the other becky.)

and then, into agony aunt mode:
i don't know why you're always lamenting that you'll never fall in love again like you did with mcjv (that's a crap nickname, btw) since you're so bitter and jaded that it didn't work out. what makes you think that it can't happen again, this time with a sunnier outcome? i believe you do be creating a self-fulfilling prophecy for yourself. in order for it to happen, you have to believe it can happen, blah, blah, blah.

what the fuck is cat doing in spain? what goes on in spain? ibiza? ibiza's cool and right on.

re: conrad. i know! suddenly, he's, like, the hottest thing i've ever seen. mmm. and: yeow!

your firmly bi friend,
spanko