I hate high heels. Walking in high heels for eight hours a day should be forbidden by the Geneva Convention.

Because it is morning, it is morning, and there is so much to see.

Dude, this is a stoner conversation and we're not even high

We're all strangers connected by what we reveal, what we share, what we take away--our stories. I guess that's what I love about books--they are thin strands of humanity that tether us to one another for a small bit of time, that make us feel less alone or even more comfortable with our aloneness, if need be.

And just as I begin to believe that all is well, there is some subtle change in the light. The room takes its true shape. I fight to go back to that blissful ignorance, but it is too late. The dull pain of truth weights my soul, pulling it under. I am left hopelessly awake.

And now I understand that truth casts a spell of its own, one I'm not sure of how to hold on to, though I'm desperate to try.

Im a techno moron. I need help just to plug in my video camera.