Friday, February 24, 2006


Last night, as I scrounged the apartment 'bar', scraping the paint for just enough alcohol to cap off a not-so-wild Quirthday celebration, Marcos says, "Oh man, Jog loves you!" Obviously, Jog doesn't love me—he doesn't even know me (yes, I realise that means there's a greater chance he does love me than there would be if he did know me), but Jog did write some lovely words about Earth Minds Are Weak #5.

And, while it's fantastic seeing someone sing your praises one drunken night, it can be a bit uncomfortable seeing those praises still sung the morning after. I have some difficulty accepting praise as it is, but suddenly I find myself terrified. Sooner or later, I'll be revealed as a fraud. I'll suffer from insurmountable performance anxiety. Sure, HE'S looking forward to the next time, but I know I'm already developing an immunity to the artistic Viagra I dropped. He'll try to soothe my pain and tell me it happens to everyone, that he still loves me no matter what, that next time will be better—but I know the horrible truth. I'm the one who has to stare deep into his eyes and watch as the magic slowly fades.


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