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2006-04-03 I write all my diary entries in the shower now. I’m not allowed to leave the shower till the entry is finished, which is a more extreme provision that it sounds, considering how slowly I work. The repercussions have been several and severe. One, I have become so clean that the Professor will never again be delighted by an intense multiplication of female fragrance concealed in my short pants, for the Professor’s fondness for tricornered hats and the strong possibility that his penis will be cut off and sold after his death are not the only things that align him with that great general. And TWO, since I stand with my face under the showerhead, I have developed a fear that the sulphurous water of the Penis State will carve wormholes of unattractiveness into my face and a fjord between my boobs, which I suspect is what happened to Tori Spelling—she too bears the mark of a woman who has turned her body too long and too thoughtfully under the hell-smelling ploughshares of her father’s water, and is her countenance itself not a collapsing wormhole of dogface frilled everywhere with a kind of santorum-looking quantum foam? Clearly, my success rate with this new method is not very high. Perhaps I should try writing entries while cooking, or, as I like to call it, “standing in the kitchen slicing up shallots like an ambitionless whore.” Either way, expect an entry about my recent journey into the seizing bowels of Ohio sometime very soon.
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