Concerned that I may have a peptic ulcer. It flares up when I talk to my dad. It's aggravated by the fact that I don't always say what I mean.

Like, this jerkwad who put out a new book of poetry that consists of nothing more than his unique brand of self-absorbed (albeit charming) observations. That is to say, he makes observations that he claims pertain to the situation around him, typically a travel destination, but in reality are just words and words about him, his likes, his dislikes, his sexist, piggish ways. This isn't really surprising to me, considering that poetry is probably the most masturbatory form of writing. What does impress me is that he continues to put out one volume after another of these glorious wanks, and then panders them to his drippy, devoted disciples--who gladly pay the ten dollars it costs them to see him vainly stroke himself for another forty-five pages.

Really, I'm still mad because he said he woudn't date me, since I wasn't Jewish--and that would go against his beliefs--but that he would be fine with some casual sex. However, instead of writing a nasty response to his promotional blanket e-mail, I write a snarky little post to my web page. Doesn't matter that it was four years ago, that he isn't that handsome or talented to begin with, that I'm happily co-habitating with someone else, that no one who knows what I'm talking about (except maybe Terry) will every read this--doesn't matter.

Snarky post it is, and the peptic ulcer be damned.