Respiratory Functions Normal

... and well, that' s about it.

There are a thousand stories, like how we ditched the inauguration curled up in our snot tunnel. Or how we watched Priscilla Queen of the Aegean, I mean Troy and howled for the duration. We could inventory the unholy amount of liquids that we have imbibed over the last five days. How we have single handedly made Odwalla Juice company's first quarter windfall. But that doesn't merit 1000 words.

We could discuss Kleenex, but I'd rather not.

Or we could tell you about the dream that we had last night, rather the (ahem) tail end of a dream. We dreamt that we were a man with an enormous penis, and we were having sex -- with ourself! And because I was a man I was concentrating on the heavy girth that was my great cock. I was completely enamored of it's movements, and couldn't keep my hands off of it. And I remember thinking when I woke up that the male orgasm was the inverse of the a woman's orgasm.

This is the second time that I have had this dream. Has any one else had a sex dream where they were the opposite sex? And what does it mean?? I suspect that the moon is holding it's sway, it's a waxing moon and it's nearly fecund.

What else, since this is a filler post, since my brain is still clouded with residual mucus and I am waiting for the tub to fill...

Shoes, I spoke with Pinpinette tonight who assures me that it is colder than the oldest, croniest witches left tit in New York which is where I will be on Tuesday afternoon. And being the aforementioned Californian pussy, I have a selection of sling backs and useless pointy toed boots and cutesy trainers. Pinpinette asks, don't I have a pair of Uggs (sp?) and I say wash your mouth out girl, what the fuck would I do with a pair of Uggs (sp?) slag wear of SoCal demi-hookers returning from a hard day of watching the surfers. She cautioned me against my pointy toed boots, then again she knows my record for injury when I am in New York. So when you see that thing clad as the Stay Puft guy from Ghost Busters trundling down the street trying to make a meeting, it's just Emma, just trying to get there in one piece.

But secretly I hope it snows again. I would like nothing more than to see the installation of Christo's gates under the snow. Is there anything quite as magnificent as the silence of a city bound to the cold, cold, clean white layer of snow, when the traffic disappears and suddenly you have disappeared into one of those snow globes, pick your city, enclosed in a monument and some hapless tourist shakes up all those bright white shards of plastic. I know, I've got the Eiffel Tower next to my bed, I often think that I'd like to disappear there.

And no one would ever find me, there I would be under the cover of the ever falling scraps of plastic, all white, always, turning pirouettes like a ballerina in a music box, never cold, always white. Maybe I'll get lost in Central Park, maybe I will be buried in a deep drift of scraps of white plastic, maybe I'll get sozzled and wind up in the nether reaches of Brooklyn, or maybe I will slip on the ice somewhere in the vicinity of W. 91st street, and bruise my ass, which of the above possibilities is the most distinct.