Excessively Self Involved

That shortness of breath and rapid heart beat? It's because I'm far too excited for my own good to go see The Wolfs perform tonight, in only a few short hours. The lead singer manages to have an eerie resemblance to Charlie Brown, yet can sing songs about specific sexual positions without being creepy. Most of the lineup for tonight is from Salt Lake City, so I'm preparing to be assailed by great waves of nostalgia and sentimentality when I get to the bar, especially since summer is speedily approaching Phoenix, reducing its inhabitants to reverse eskimos, baring too much skin and constructing their lives to facilitate maximum exposure to A/C.

My desire to be back somewhere with tolerable weather is of such power that I was actually manifested in SLC. Yes, my sister saw me walking across the street last night.


It was, admittedly, in Tracy Strauss's painting form, but I take it as an auspicious sign. That, and the plane tickets, destination SLC.



While searching for a particular article about me, so that I could cite it in my press clippings, I came across two somewhat perplexing things. Firstly, there is a racing horse named Lady Camilla Taylor. I hate horses. They are horrible animals and I hope to stay as far away from them as can be physically managed.

This is secondly:

Have I yet elucidated how explosively hot Camilla Taylor is? She's hot. That's it: I must age six years in the next fifteen seconds and fight her (probably) sleazy, horsecocked boyfriend. The future is looking bright.

Why, oh why, is Camilla Taylor 26?

Seriously, Knox, internet, go fuck yourselves. I am overreaching, and to a greater extent than usual. And it is your fault. And now I am going to do homework and think about Camilla Taylor and be mopey and wish that I too could be an extraordinary weirdo genius troubled by a devilish imagination and a sickly constitution. Alas!

Huh.

Huh.

Quoted, not linked, because being an aspiring Lothario (look it up, it's appropriate) doesn't merit potential mockery and unwanted attention, in my mind anyway. My reaction to reading this was alarm, but not really of the sort that one would expect. Sickly Constitution? Really? I've always thought of myself as rather hale and hardy, albeit with an irritating belief in the merits of sunscreen, but healthy nonetheless. I don't foresee a romance between myself and this young scribe, but I'm somewhat baffled that my age, a difference of 6 years, is such a barrier. Six doesn't strike me as that big a difference. I once dated someone that much younger than me. He looked chokingly beautiful with his shirt off, played the cello, and I snuck him into bars when I should have known better. Evidently both of our friends had adviced as against it because of our age, and perhaps they were right as he and I don't really talk anymore. Or perhaps I'm getting all nostalgic about him because Rostropavitch just died.

But then, maybe that kid talking about a different 26 year old Camilla altogether.

Additionally, the first entry reminds me of how much I loathe eighties teen movies and the way their conceits have infiltrated society. Yeah, I'm talking about you, John Hughes.

Pretty new things in my shop. I've got big elaborate plans for my website, which will be implemented later in the week.

I'm finagling a trade out of Abbyjane. How does she make those beautiful birds and how does she keep them from toppling over? Some sort of black arts, I suspect.

Oh, and if you've got old button up shirts that you don't want, then I recommend giving them to me. I'm nearly out!