In honor of Wasim, a real entry. notice the paragragraphs to come. And the made up word. Why we love typos.
In prophecies, Bush is going to team up with Michael Jackson and Kobe Bryant to get their PRs up together. Like an AA meeting or something. Maybe they'll all have quadruplets.
Going vegan only minus the "not eating poultry or dairy", which is something like a Lacto-ovo-vegetarian only, with chicken becuase I like chicken still. I don't think I'm ready to make that non-poultry jump yet. Everything else should be easy becuase you know, I've hated steak and stuff since I was little. Although last night I had a dream about wanting meatballs so what do I know?
 I know I can't technically marry him but you know. Groupies are ok. And I don't have to worry about a pole fetish or anything, which is good.
Also for wasim, a poem: (and this is specially for Wasim Hear that Wasim? It's your request! edit....now!)
My Grandmother’s Hands
It wasn’t until I started to cook,
and only when I smelled the spices,
that I realized-
basil
was the smell of my grandmother’s house.
I could see her
50 years ago, her strong hands
(my mother always says she gave the best
backrubs as her own fingerprints massage our necks)
kneading spices into chicken,
making her husband’s dishes
the best she could.
This was not the old country.
‘No, no Grandma! Make American food!’
her five granddaughters (my mother and her sisters)
would beg.
This American food, it
took her wurst, baptized it Catholic, and then took
her husband’s spaghetti, his meatballs,
mixed them together, ignoring
the proper order of things.
And the cheeses-
sliced,
soft,
now.
She opened more cans
dripping the syrup over the vegetables, the meat.
And when the screen door slammed no more,
her hands shook too much to chop the garlic
fine, fine.
Her daughter’s hands were too clumsy,
cutting basil American style-
big.
So she stored crackers on the attic stairs,
ignoring the expiration dates
(food was food, she, child of the Depression, knew)
and opened more cans, waiting for the butcher
to blow the dust off his counter.
These new men didn’t let you watch them
cut the meat.
I smell my hands-
like basil.
Like foreign words.
Like syrup in the bottom of a metal can.
Like home.
| 
very happy indeed
I'm glad I didn't have a dream house- I wonder if Ken signed a pre-nup?
