Just got back from Ana’s. Basically by the skin of my teeth. I’ve got an erlenmeyer flask of distilled passive-aggressive sexual confusion and after typing this up and maybe a cup of coffee I’ll lock the cork down with some sealing wax, mark it with the insignia ring (totally turned out great, by the way — a sleek airship framed by a sunburst), and file it with the others. Four hundred fifty American US dollars, can’t beat that. (Haha but of course I can, which is what next week’s “date” is concerned with — one thousand bucks and no change if I can procure the elusive quiet pride. It is within my grasp, friends — send me your good luck wishes!)

But you should’ve seen me trying to sneak the apartment key off her nipple ring. God, like a bad sitcom come to life. (Hang on a sec while I add another stroke to my tally of how many times I&’ve said that. Three more and I win a free fucking frogurt.) I mean, sure, she’s out cold, but it’s been my experience that nipple-pulling is one of the things that can knock you right back into consciousness, like god’s own ammonium carbonate. And the keyring is totally tiny and tight, and I clipped my fingernails in preparation for our evening together (as requested) so I can’t pry the thing apart, and the key I want is surrounded by three or four others, and on and on, a complete nightmare.

But I’m out, I’m free, I’m home, a job well done, pat-pat, and I’ve already spent the money: Fucking Victor/Victoria special edition DVD.