Marty Robbins defines my lonesome and wandering cowboy soul. I feel and look not unlike a man in drag most days. Some days I do not think this is a bad thing. I'm interested in the recreational use of...bandages. I want to marry Jeffrey Combs. No one understands my rather passionate enthusiasm for the 1990 Sheen-Estevez venture, Men at Work. I want to sign up for Tom Savini's school of special effects makeup so, so badly, but I have a hard enough time with my own face. Someday I will own, recondition and operate an early 20th century-era moviehouse. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and grow sad. I want have the one I can't have. While I wouldn't say that I necessarily like dead babies, I'm ceaselessly interested in Victorian memorial photos of dead babies, most especially fascinated with retouched photos of modern dead babies, and particularly excited to find the tombstones and graves of long dead, short-lived babies. Moreso than regular dead people. I live for midcentury housewares. When I'm home alone, I like to don a vintage slip and comically false lashes and imagine I'm a cat on a hot tin roof. I love life, I do. And also photos of wailing babies and/or ailing old ladies squirming in the padded embrace of mall Easter Bunnies. Or anyone in a fur suit. I stumble down my bedroom stairs at least once a week. Sometimes I tumble to the bottom. That's where these bruises come from. Well, most of them. Daddy drank. I'm not much of a talker. I'd like you to think that it's because I'm a secret agent with a gun as shiny and black as the synthetic wig I'm wearing, but in truth it's often just too hard to find the words. Doug Wilson of television's "Trading Spaces," I'd ask you to marry me, too, but I have this deeply rooted, irrational aversion to men in flip-flops.