January 1st. Sometime.

Never again. Ever.

I think my head is going to explode, not to mention certain other bits.

Later.

Do not think that Maureen is quite as lesbian as she claims.

Later later.

Definitely did not fix my camera all night. Got drunk.

Don't really remember what exactly happened.

Hope camera was not on when when Maureen was messing around with it. Dear God I hope it was not on.

I'm going to sleep off this fecking hangover. Stupid.

January 4th. 3:09.

Decided to take a break from you/this whole paper towel thing for a while. Blame you for what ... happened ... on New Year's Eve because you were there and Maureen must've been able to read over my shoulder. Sucks to be you, doesn't it.

In other news, I went out and filmed today. Was lovely, actually, got a few nice shots. Especially of birds -- Pigeons are pretty, sometimes. With little bits of green and purple mixed in with the gray. Why does there always seem to be one with only one leg? He was violent, too. Tried to attack my lens cap, which was dangling.

Never liked birds anyway.

Prefer cats. Prettier.

Would like to get a cat.

Afraid Roger might mistake it for a furry sponge.

... Not that he bathes.

January 5th. Afternoon.

Am severely tempted to get a kitty.

Would name it Bruce.

Bruce is a good name for a cat.

January 6th. 8:00 AM.

Went out to film documentary again today -- very exciting, trust. Actually I took Collins' advice. Which was very clever, I must say.

He offered to lend me a pair of old rollerskates and use them while filming to get some different shots. The moving kind. With zooms. Better shots of birdies, he said; I thought he meant that I ought to shoot them (like ... with a gunthing) but then realized he meant with a camera. Was slightly dissapointed. Used to it.

Would like to look into learning how to shoot.

Shoot like a girl, according to Roger.

Well Roger screams like a girl, so there. Asshat.

ANYWAY. Rollerskates.

NOT A GOOD IDEA.

Am sporting bruises in unmentionable places. Am aching. Ran into a tree. Twice. Managed to -- miracle or miracles -- save camera from certain death but got some rather queer (I'm NOT.) from some crazy bag ladies. They think I'm weird; well, fuck them! I don't want a man purse anyway. Have a camera back. Different thing entirely, thanks.

Not gucci, anyway.

Later

Collins is laughing at me.

Bastard.

Later again. 11:59

Do not like Collins anymore. He laughs every time he looks at me now.

Hmph.

January 7th. Sometime.

My ass hurts.

January 10th. Noon.

Well, Mimi finally croaked.

Roger is a silly (although hot) blonde twat and sulking. Wuss.

Later.

Death whining getting old. Will he never get sick of eyes? Bloody git needs to get over that dizzy slut and find himself a new exotic dancer girlfriend. Sans tacky turqoise plastic pants. Ugh.

Would never wear tacky turqoise plastic pants, personally.

Could be an exotic dancer if I wanted.

Really! Am very sensual.

Am not geeky.

January 21st. Sometime.

Have spent the past week or so attempting to seduce Roger. He does not realize it. He is still bitching about his 'Sweet darling little beautiful precious lovely Mimi'.

Methinks we ought to get the dictionary from under ... well, where ever the hell it is. Am feeling that his vocabulary needs a pick-me-up.

Sure, his chickfriend is six feet under but, I mean, hey, romance is dead, pal.

Later.

PREVIOUS ENTRY IS KIDDING.

AM STRAIGHT.

So straight I didn't wash my hair today! Beat that.

Hah.

Ten minutes later

... Hair is feeling greasy and icky. Omigod.

Later (again).

Ought to wash hair. But it would be too straight. Am not queer. Seriously.

I hate everything.

January 22nd. 9:10 AM.

Washed hair before Roger woke up.

Can't have him thinking I'm a flamer or anything.

...

Only gay people wash their hair.

AM STRAIGHT.

(Denial is for losers, okay? Am not a loser either.)

Later.

Think Roger might suspect the cleanliness of hair. Shit.

January 23rd. 5:40 PM.

Acting straight is hell.

January 23rd. 5:41 PM.

... Which is not to say that I'm gay or anything. Cuz I'm not.

January 23rd. 5:45 PM.

Well maybe a little.

January 28th. Around eight AM.

Was forced to hide you for a few days as Roger was getting suspicious as to why I was writing on a perfectly useful roll of paper towels. He doesn't appreciate the fine art of writing, I don't think. Oh well. Can deal. Some things never change.

Talking about his boxers, here.

End this now.

January 31th. 11:58 PM.

Roger is drunk.

11:59 PM

... is he coming on to me?