June 21, 2002 | 5:06 PM

So I just ran into Angus.

And.

And.

Um.

Jesus Christicle. I'm still gonna be writing about the same fucking heart-break-bukowski boys when I'm fifty I bet you anything.

Oh they kill me with their

I-wanna-fuck-you-but-i'm-too-drunk-wait-now-i'm-not-so-i-will-but-if-i-do-i-won't-call-you-for-two-months-but-then-i-will-drunk-of-course-to-tell-you-that-i-love-you-but-when-you-come-over-i'll-pretend-i-don't-know-why-you're-there-and-i'll-hit-on-your-best-friend-but-then-i'll-cry-about-it-later-and-tell-you-i-really-do-love-you-and-i'll-kiss-you-for-hours-until-your-lip-swells-up-and-we'll-read-robert-browning-in-the-moon-light-but-when-you-wake-up-the-next-day-i'll-be-gone.

Fuckers.

Why can't any of you commit to something other than drinking and shit jobs?