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At a friends request I will write a real entry.

Hi, I'm boo.

I am soon to be 30 years old. I'm told I look no where near it...I know I feel no where near it. However, there are those days... You know what I'm talking about. Those days.

I'm feeling hungover this morning.

Todays plans include, but are not limited to, cleaning the bathroom, mop all floors, lunch with a friend who's come from 400 miles away, reading, finish watching Boogie Nights, picture-taking with cool new camera, silence, laughing, hoping, thinking and waiting. If I could only convince myself to get up from this chair and take a shower, then all of this can begin.

My stomach is leading a revolt. It has every fiber of my being turned against me. My legs and feet have met and agreed to take me as far as the back door. There I may let loose on my deck. I don't know...the garbage can is two feet away.

I will not surrender. I'm in charge here, damn you.

Am I still writing within "normal" parameters?

For those of you who don't know, 99% of you, I've been ill for several months now. I don't write about it because it has little to do with who I am.

My biological mother did fertility drugs, heavy duty fertility drugs. (She was the guinea pig.) In my opinion this is just as bad as smoking weed or shooting up when you're pregnant. Why, you ask? Three out of four of us survived the 9 months in the womb, this year one of three of us will have made it past 29... That would be me. Need I say more?

I'm not bitter, I don't hate the woman who gave me life. I ask why alot, why this or that, but I accept that I have no answers.

I'm sensitive, overly at times, and I cry. I ask that you don't hurt me. On the other hand, if need be, I can tell you to go fuck yourself and your opinion. Chances are I'm not going to though... I keep that in reserve for a select few of you.

This is all for now.

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