Two weird e-mails

One asking me to watch the fortune of some deposed dictator's wife. Yeah, ask the person least sympathic to the plight of deposed assholes, and the most suspicious of spam and possible cons. Let me guess, this is all for a small deposit of money I don't have. Yeah. The strange thing was he used an old handle of mine.

Another is an incoherant letter accusing a chick on a mailing list I am on of child molestation. Mind you, said chick identifies herself as a vampyre (occasional blood drinking type, no supernatural powers, apparently vampire also means sexually adverturous woman in the twenties, thus her identification), but pedophilia seems beyond the pale for her. But I get it on a list that would make this revelation off-fucking-topic. Ah well.

The rain sucks, and it is really tempting to skip work. Blah, blah, blah. All this free time, and I spent it sleeping, reading, and checking e-mail. I hardly made a dent in my novel, but hey, I finished Part I of my comic book script. Yeah.

Mark Sandman Square

I cannot get along with women,
from my mother onward.
They either drift
or I explode.

From my mother onward,
I got the sense I was special,
but then the world must agree
or I explode.

I got the sense I was special
destined for glory or dirt.
But special also means singular,
alone on the stage.

Destined for glory or dirt,
striving for something to outlast us,
I think of a man dying in Italy
alone on the stage.