dear anna,

I don't much care for this pressure to be funny in this post regarding tomorrow's departure for the ATL (no Friday post bitches!). Isn't my impending presence and my promise to try and not masturbate on your dirty clothes enough? Also, my back really hurts, I really wish I was at home playing MGS4 (or, alternately, on the bus/metro anxiously clutching it in my increasingly white-knuckled hands), and there are no reservations for Saturday at Home and thus no trying the delicious food of/gawking at Richard Blais, even if he did totally drop the ball last night and somehow managed to get outshone by that "rain cloud in cargo pants" Sour Patch. And Anna, if that's not enough for you, my only option is to resort to the most powerful weapon in my arsenal: a picture of a piglet wearing tiny boots.


Kisses,
Stuart

P.S. I'm also missing Pride, missing standing out in the heat watching a parade that is often more depressing than proud, missing waiting in line at JR's, missing partying with a community with which I've grown so disenfranchised it's not even funny, all for you. Bitch.