2001-07-17 :: 2:17 p.m.

In a perfect world, it wouldn't irk me that My Boy's ex is going over to his house tomorrow to record a solo demo, even though she has a 4-track at her house.

Alas, I am not perfect, however. And, given my penchant for not trusting anyone, it makes me think it's kinda shady, claiming she doesn't know how to use her own 4-track.

If this were an episode of Sex and the City, it would be a big deal and the Nuns and I would have to sit around some food on the Lower East Side and discuss it.

I will rise above, though. After all, My Boy's not doing it for free, and business is business, regardless of the asinine plot contrivance.

I had this loopy dream last night that I was hanging out with Sgt. Pepper's-era-Beatles on the stoop of some houses in Jersey City, and we were all joking and laughing and singing songs and smoking butts and John Lennon was alive and telling us stories and then My Boy's ex-roommate threw up all over himself because he was too drunk. The Beatles clapped.

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