dear diary.

Dear Diary,

Earlier this week I saw some tasty bait in wait and I clicked as hard as I could, only to feel my fragile enamel strike smooth steel as the yank of realization pierced straight through my cheek. I can't exactly blame the fisherman for wanting something known, but what remains plain is that no one ever wants to dangle from the end of a line. I'm relieved there is a vast sea booming with fish like me, mouths filled with metal, attentive and at the ready still.

Last night I went to the Crystal Castles show. I felt like I was eighty years old. The child-girls next to me kept trying to dance into me, to force room for their ranks and files. I laughed at their diminutive size and persistence. Last night I was in no way an attractive trout, I was perpetually the old grouper in the way. Fortunately it didn't matter - Crystal Castles fucking brought it! Alice Glass was literally held high by the hands of the audience a good 20% of the time, thrashing and writhing in scream and surrender. Diary that show was pretty radical.

Last night I also met my first German friend that wasn't already an elderly Chinese roommate. He was wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt and we formed instant solidarity as unified fish out of water. We made vague plans to break into an abandoned Iraqi embassy, frozen in time thanks to the immediacy of evacuation. I really hope I don't have to wrestle any skinheads for a souvenir. The hipsters I can probably take.

Thanks for listening, diary. You're the best.