Well, this, of course, happens sometimes.

Rocky Horror, naturally, was a good time--for the second night in a row, I got some sloppy tounge-kissing action, and that would be from two seperate guys, yo--but I've never been good at writing about the big events in life, the busy ones.

It's always been the small events I tend to write about. Because it's always them that I get hung up on and want to capture, somehow.

I don't know--is it only me who is more moved to write about the walk home from a grocery store than about men in drag? I really should, however, practice writing about the big things sometime. Kind of hard to write the next great American novel with only descriptions of children yelling in closed car lots.

The roommate situation, meanwhile, gets more absurd. Today, the marker board on the door reads "I wish people would stop acting like I don't exist." Yesterday, my friend--bored--had scrawled "___ Lives Here!" (blank me name here--not that most of you don't already KNOW it) on my portion of the board. An hour or two later, the roommie had put up "So does ___, but nobody cares about her, so she doesn't matter." Blank being her name, of course, again.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it. Other than ignore it.

Which is just what I'll go and do, after all.