Sinister: ain't nothing going on but the rent

[Pulpbot at xxx.com]

Kids,

Can the recovering music snobs form some sort of self-help club? "Hi, my name 
is Jennifer and I hate anyone who doesn't have an original copy of 
Tigermilk." You can choose any higher power, but it can't be a Scottish 
musician. Falling of the wagon is equated with going to see your favorite 
bands and glaring at the "poseurs" in audience. 
Moved into DC this weekend (my new roommate is fellow (ex)listee Eran. It's 
like the phenomena where a butterfly dies in Japan, and eventually it effects 
who the next president of Argentina is or something--Belle and Sebastian form 
and eventually I find a rent source.) Unlike Stuart Murdoch, I didn't take a 
break when my legs became black and blue. Curse Eran and his insanely heavy 
mismatched furniture.  Third record on the stereo: Tigermilk. The musical 
equivalent to comfort food.
I've not yet had a dream about B&S, but I did dream last night that this 
beautiful boy whom I always see at shows kept turning up at various locations 
(including my bedroom) with his scabby girlfriend, and they would proceed to 
make out and stare blankly at me. I suppose that's a scenario Bret Easton 
Ellis would dream up for his disaffected dollies. It certainly put me off 
going out tonight.
Jennifer 
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 +-+  "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "tech-heads and students" +-+
 +-+  "the cardie wearing biscuit nibbling belle & sebastian list" +-+
 +-+                     "jelly-filled danishes"                   +-+
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