To whom it concerns: I sincerely appreciate all the love that's been steered my way over the last week. Thank you all. You're far better friends than I've earned, and living proof that my comeuppance has not yet come. I'm recovering from the hysteria of Tuesday and Wednesday, and once again gaining some perspective.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
16. Shoes determine whether you're fashionable or not.
Black, high-top Chuck Taylor All-Stars, baby! Fuck yeah.

Today I'm wearing a new Flogging Molly T-shirt I bought at the San Francisco Warped. It's the Molly shirt we're all been waiting for: black with a white skull-and-crossed-swords, Flogging Molly written in red in an archaic looking font. It's awesome. My only concern is that between the shirt and my tattoo I've got too much skull going on. Actually, I'm entirely certain I've got too much skull going on, but I love this shirt too much to care.

David's against me getting more tattoos. I think he's afraid I'll become some sort of tattoo guy. This stikes me as an unreasonable fear, in that during all of my visits to the tattoo parlor, I've felt very much that I do not at all belong, other than the fact that I have a sweet tattoo. I've never belonged, no matter where I've gone. So, why should the tattoo parlor be any different? (Or, he's just worried that I'll look like a tool. Have faith, my blue friend. I know what I'm doing.)