I still miss Sherilyn. It’s such a shame that we couldn’t reconcile our dreams and desires. I wanted her to stay home, cook, clean, take care of me, and wear a scold’s bridle. She wanted a restraining order. Call me a fuddy-duddy, but I’ve always believed that only in the privacy of home and the sanctity of marriage should a man and a woman burn each other’s nipples with cigarettes.

I have just finished watching season 6 of The Gilmore Girls on the DVD. Sherilyn had a recurring part in it, you know. I enjoy that show. Women who talk fast creep me out. I tried to pitch an episode last year. Rory is possessed by a demon and turns into Monica Bellucci.

She begins a consuming affair with her mother, who has been running a brothel in the Dragonfly Inn. The little man from a far-away place and the bug-eyed man who dances visit while looking for a very fat woman. I didn’t get much further than that, but they didn’t think they could afford Monica Bellucci anyway. Maybe I’ll turn it into a feature.

I saw Regis at my weekly Ikebana and frozen-semen sculpture class yesterday. He invited me to his pot-luck dinner this weekend. Call me a stickler, but I prefer to know whether I should bring Jello salad or songbird hearts in aspic, in case someone else brings the same dish.

I appeared to myself in a vision this morning. I think I was trying to tell myself where I’d left the peanut butter, but I couldn’t really tell what I was saying.

Call me a homebody, but there’s nothing I like better than snuggling up on the couch for the evening with my kitten-cat, Bundy, and watching as my dog Buster recovers from the speedball I hid in his dinner.