One phrase I really like the sound of is "socket wrench", although I'm basically indifferent to the object it describes. Tools are fetish objects for some people. Accompanying my stepfather to the Craftsman Tools section of Sears when I was a kid, I'd watch the men finger the implements with the furtive darting eyes of guys in porno shops. I don't know the difference between a brook, a creek, and a stream. Is there one? I have a distinct but false memory of admiring a pot of geraniums while being fucked up the ass as I stand leaning on a dining room chair, but I'm sure this never happened. For some reason, at some point in the past, I must've deemed it important enough to imagine such a scene in great detail, because now it has the force of a real memory. When I'm in a hotel room I have the strongest urge to gorge myself to the point of sickness on Toblerone and Orangina from the minibar, but at no other time do I desire such things or even think about them. I once told a friend, while chatting on the phone with him, that I couldn't talk much longer as I was committing to memory the Wallace Stevens poem "Le Monocle de Mon Oncle", when in fact I was waiting for brownies to be finished baking and wanted to consume the entire pan in private without the distraction of making conversation. My favored revenge daydream is choking. I understand the most popular one is shooting, but I like to imagine feeling the life being squeezed from the bodies of my enemies and letting their limp corpses crumple to the floor. Shooting is more colorful and dramatic, but choking gives more long-term satisfaction. Stabbing is reserved for family members. "February" is a word I have a great deal of trouble pronouncing for some reason. Thank goodness I wasn't born in February.