Yikes, the beau returns tomorrow night and my bachelorette pad has to be disassembled: the vacuum cleaner is ready for action but I can't seem to take the final step of plugging it in and all. This is the sound I make when I vacuum: "fricka fricka rissa rassen." I HATE cleaning and have found that if I put on some ass-kicking rock & roll, like PJ Harvey, on cordless headphones really loud it becomes more tolerable. FedEx'd off contact sheets to Phish's office and their p.r. guy, Jason, told me a HUGE secret which I abso-freakin-lutely can't tell anyone. I'm wondering why on Earth he even had to tell me. Hoping they dig the images and want to buy one for the BIG secret that will have all Phish phans the world opher peeing in their phreaking pants. Whereas once you could take a blood sample from me and find that it was composed mainly of photo chemicals, these days you would find mainly coffee in the sample. Off to more writing, off to more deadline state of mind, not off to more cleaning.