So not only is Sterling plagued by ghost cramps in her missing fingers, (which truly is tragic, word is bond) but she's also hallucinating having fucked random girls she finds in her cyberspace wanderings. (While she's sniffing for porn, hungry for stink, no doubt.) We met up yesterday outside the studio. For some reason, Phoebe's was closed so no coffee with a vague hint of playdoh flavor for us. So we walked and talked, like the old broke, homeless days in Europa. Among other things, she confided that one of her posts received an email response of mistaken identity. It was this one--where she waxes butch poetic about an online diary--Katherinhand, a pretty good one, I might add, that I actually added to our paltry links list to the left. At any rate, the girl was completely noble about the whole thing and although Sterling offerred to remove the post (that is to say, beg my administrator ass to take it down) the girl said, no it was fine in a very polite way. Maybe it's because she's from San Francisco. I don't know if I'd be so happy if someone linked to me and went on about a fling we had in which I liked to fuck outside and listen to Philip Glass, of all things. I reread the post this morning and noticed that Sterling even makes reference to me knowing this girl. Yeah right, like I can tell all your pieces apart.

Sterling wants to give the girl our P.O. box address, so we can trade some art. She seems like a total, Morrissey loving sweetheart but is this embarassing or what? She must think we're total clowns, which, upon a nanosecond of reflection, I realize that yes, that's exactly what we are.

World domination has never seemed so far away. Just give me the light and pass the joint...

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