When you work out where to draw the line...

There is an unconscious appositeness in the use of the word person to designate the human individual, as is done in all European languages: for persona really means an actor's mask, and it is true that no one reveals himself as he is; we all wear a mask and play a role.

- Schopenhauer

Determined Singles

I'm getting tickets for Suede's gigs in September... even if I have to beat up Suedeheads outside the ICA.

A Town Called Malice

Malice's mutation began on a day like any other. She'd arrived home from work, with Mark, and settled down with a Bud on their front portch, waiting for the weekend to begin. Instead, an itching grew. She stretched her legs as far as she could, dug her nails into the skin that seemed crawling with ants, and lay the cold bottle of beer on her forehead to keep herself awake. Mark watched her calmly, petting his ball python Charlie. As Charlie curled itself around Mark's forearms, Malice looked at him in despair and moaned "there's something wrong with my legs!"

He took Charlie back to its aquarium and returned to her side. Malice had fallen off her chair and lay on the wooden portch, writhing like a Pentecostal. Mark thought she was joking, and would have probably finished off her bottle of beer if she hadn't started hitting the chairs with her flailing legs and cursing the world. He tried to hold her down. Then he saw it, jutting out of her right kneecap: a miniscule street sign. It was hard as metal. He pulled it out and tried to read the tiny letters on it. Underneath his other arm, his bride wriggled and gasped. The tiny street sign said: "welcome to Malice."

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