the show last night was amazing. the decemberists are beautiful beautiful people and i was quite tempted to smuggle them home in my bag...and carson ellis, too. i want to see them again on wednesday ever so badly but of course it is an evil and strictly 21+ venue. i sob...and i am ready to formulate plans for a mass genocide of the brooklyn population, but i'd rather not go into that or the cigarette burn on my arm that i named Norah. i guess i'm a country gal at heart. i'd rather hear crickets than drunken fools as i try to go to sleep, i feel having streetlights on every corner is a waste, and there is something endearing about living in a neighborhood where people wave at you when you drive by.

this afternoon my mother told me i should draw up a living will. i suppose she fears me falling into a persistent vegetative state. this will have to do:

if i, "elliot c. bean," become incapable of using my typewriter or blowing my nose at my own free will, i beg of those around me to make sure i am euthanized as swiftly as possible. i wish to be cremated before my funeral and displayed in a fishbowl with a pair of baby shoes and a picture of skip james. a suitable rendition of "the wagoner's lad" shall be played, in an atrabilious manner might i add, and at the end of the ceremony there shall be a duel of accordians. if my cat bijou is still alive then consult her about what to do with my ashes. if she is not, i give you all permission to spread them across the dangerous ice on your walkways

love

i need to iron some pletas back into a skirt tonight. hmph

<<|>>