Will Nature make a man of me yet?

I keep feeling like there's news, and there isn't news, though I guess it depends on what you consider newsworthy. If I don't shave every day I get imperceptible blond stubble on my chin. I think this is fucking awesome, but who am I to say?

The voice keeps droppin'. I've had a whiskey-and-beer-and-rollies-induced cold hanging over from Thanksgiving for the past few days, and though it's a little bit of regular cold-lower-voice (I'm just going to keep hyphenating words into new words), it surprises me. But then, when I hear my voice played back to me, like when my shitty phone echoes back snippets of everything I say, I'm still girlish, or butchwomanish.

I went up to see Morrissey on Monday, which was fucking amazing. I don't think I've ever been so excited to see a 50 year old man take off his shirt, which he did twice. He also played This Charming Man, among other old anthems, which I appreciated. But in (not) passing news, my crew and I were stopped at a crosswalk downtown on the way to the Roseland, when an old homeless man walked up. He counted, "one, two, three, four"--which confused me, since there were five of us--and then said to me, "Four men! You are one lucky girl." I rolled my eyes. Lucas later amended it to "You are one lucky twink," which in a way, I suppose I am, though not in the way the old man insinuated.

I think that's it, unless you want to read about my dream involving a magic wish-granting vibrator, which you probably don't.