Lay with me because you wish to, not out of obligation.

I was pretty pleased with myself, I must say, at the end of the night. Not that things were perfect, there's always room to be bigger and better, but overall, I was very proud of the act and my MCing. And of the rest of the show which helped make those things easy. I could probably be persuaded to do it again without much effort. Especially in that wig -- I love my new wig. CeCe Wonder is starting to come together, I think.

I'm so full of eggs and bacon and toast and coffee and cherries and orange juice right now that I could almost puke. It's a little uncomfortable. Especially since I'm supposed to be sitting in this chair and writing, writing, writing. I have a story to e-mail by midnight. Maybe I'll even finish it by the early evening and I could go play. I'm feeling rather prowly. However, no procrastinating or exchanging or rationalizing. I'm not leaving until I'm done. I may be horny, I may be a fiend, but I have a priority.

I finished reading Garcia Marquez's Leaf Storm and I wasn't sure I got it, but then I read something about how this was his "Faulkner novel" and that made more sense. It's tougher than I expected, reading a writer's catalog and starting with his early works when his style is not as fully formed. Now, before going forward to his second novella, I'm back to reading The Book of Disquiet by Pessoa and it's so gorgeous I practically weep while reading. It makes me want to read it aloud, to call people up or pull it out of my bag and share it with anyone and everyone. Except there's something about how the words sit on the page, how my eyes take them in and absorb them that is important to the experience. I want to go out to the store and buy several dozen copies and hand them out to everyone in my life who loves text. So far, as a warning, it's not terribly narrative-oriented. I'm on the section called "A Factless Autobiography", to give you an idea, so plot-lovers beware.

I think I've finally digested a little.