Sinister: morning sounds the same as mourning, doesn't it.

[lindsey baker]

hello sinister. 

i really don't have anything to say, but as i was sitting here wading 
through the lovely petals of sinister posts i've gathered, i simply had to 
write and say how much i love you all for never making me feel alone and for

always wanting to make me fly. 

usually to other countries. where i can sit and have a nice bit of tea and 
wear my brown shoes with the tan stitching and have no one label me a 
'hippie,' as my sister recently has. well. poo to her. she just wishes she 
had my button badges, etc. 

this weekend, your lou was sick. sick sick sick. and sadly, sickness came 
while i was at the bookstore -- though, it did wait kindly enough for me to 
purchase my copy of ballad of the sad cafe and present of the fountainhead. 
then. after i paid. it was happy that i was going home. 

so i slept. and this morning, read. and then came back to school and my own 
apartment and the newspaper. and my tummy hurts. 

i tend to feel ill a lot, i have noticed, and i recently wonder what, 
exactly, could be causing this. and i think, if it's not the newspaper 
stress of constant stories (damn people for doing things that make news), 
then it must be my sadness manifesting itself into physical badness. 

i'm sitting here looking at the photo of myself wearing a wedding dress at 
the newspaper halloween party. and i look more bride-like than i thought i 
did. i was wearing this pearl-encrusted headband with little comb teeth on, 
which dug horribly into my head. but i sacrificed. and that night, i had 
amazingly rounded up a lovely boy to go as my groom. but, at the last minute

he had to work. so there i was. all dressed up with no one on my arm. 

and the next day, my insides came out to keep the outside company. 

i always look forward to wrapping myself up in the bedsheets and blankets at

the end of the day for a night of sleeping, and the sheets are always cold 
when i finally get in. and i hardly ever really, really sleep. and then i 
begin thinking about what i have to do and what i wish i could be doing, and

why the bed is called a twin-size when it only ever holds one. i plan my 
outfits for the week, and then try to sleep, mindful of my hairdo, so that, 
on the off chance i might have to jump straight out of bed and go somewhere,

my hair (and subsequently i) look good. 

and then, at this point, i usually have to get up and write for a wile, just

so i don't forget whatever it is in my head that will one day be hailed as 
genius after i'm dead. like carson. 

and then morning comes, and i hope i'm not sick feeling again. 

this morning, i felt ill all over again. 

so. 

but maybe my feeling bad is just a consequence of my envronment, you know? 
several reporters down here are eating american style chinese food, and the 
smell is hideous. 

hm. 

i asked for lazy line painter jane for christmas. i don't have that, either.

badness, indeed. 

oh yes, one more thing. i am thinking of compiling my pulling tips/ dos and 
donts in a special holiday edition for our own stankin' david and any others

who like them as much as he does. if it goes off, it could be a real 
sinister event of sorts. 

ok. 

thank you. 

misslou 
 
 
 





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 +-+       "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper           +-+
 +-+  "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+
 +-+    "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000     +-+
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