Vibrance.

I only recently figured out that vibrating razors are the answer to the Texas (Alabama, where else?) sex toy ban. And damn, do they get the job done. Not only are my legs smooth as a porn star's everything, but I'm feeling like a real outlaw with this thing right out in the open. Sure: that thing plugged in by my bed relieves "neck" tension, and the battery-powered pink thing is my "razor." Oh, the lies we tell.

The past seven days have been a bruised valentine to your buddy and mine, Jacques Lacan. This morning, I attempted to sort through the gaze while getting a pedicure; both experiences may give me an infection, but I really can't complain. In fact, I may have already built up antibodies to the former. Now I have patina-green toenails, tough as brass; now I remember what the fucking gaze did to me in my undergraduate years. Pretty soon after my first semester, I was suffering from phallic-ghost paranoia; and look, anyone who knows me will tell you that I can conjure these psychoanalytic demons without Freud's drug of choice.

Anamorphosis: the art of seeing penises from unconventional angles. Yes, we have the devil's dandruff to thank for this; now I know why I've been having all those weird dreams about staying up all night. I do not "lack" anything, okay? I just have this problem with my brain: it actually absorbs psychoanalysis, like a sponge. It is a multiplicity of holes, just like any human surface area. I mean, this reduction to one hole is a little simplistic, don't you think? There is never just one: it has cronies, doppelgangers, pets.