You are very intelligent. Israelis meet in a district instead of a stake. What's the difference?

I am interested in anything Justin, but that is part of my toxic psychosis, which I must mend.

It was everybody rushing to see the photos, and lingering all night.

All I can say is I can't hold a candle to you. I'm exhausted for sitting. I'm supposed to be working three shifts a day, now, but I keep falling asleep at work. Such a lazy bum. I long for that old economy of working ten or twelve hours a day and going home to put my feet up, take a walk, volunteer, tutor, read about work-related subjects that interest me, and hit the mattress for a good six hours. I'd love to unload a job, but unemployment is so low, nobody can find anybody to fill the unskilled, unpaid, third-shift, make-work inanity. (Yes, future employers, you read that. I don't enjoy killing myself over inanity in the wee hours.) Another thing I don't like about the new economy is how getting paid is anybody's guess anymore, and major purchases take weeks to show up on your account while subject to changes in prices.

You, luna, are the psychologist. I am the sick one. I is-pose in spite of your proficiency, alacrity, perspicacity, and all that, you've never treated one as far-gone as I. I know I don't have to be toxic. I just haven't figured out how to stop. I should probably start by taking a hiatus from here. I try to keep the conversation alive, but I only injure the good folks and kill the conversations. I is-pose much of it is me getting insanely jealous so easily. I never used to get jealous, which I know is horribly sinful, but now I turn a vibrant green any time I hear about how close and personal the real fans are with Justin. I'm the old, wicked step-sister. Next thing you know, I'll be making fans stay home and sweep the floors on concert night.

Work to back.

I feel a witto better, not so full of poo anymore. I got to meditate somewhat. I was on a roll in church. I sat in the hall and stared out the window, as I was too germy to join the other folks in the chapel. I figured I'd sit out there until I could hide behind the piano for the next two hours. Then, I let a certain stalker mess with my peace. He started praising me from the pulpit, you know I'm such the religious experience and surely the object of congregational worship. I told myself not to let him live rent free in my mind. When he finished his words, I ran for the women's room. I was stoked with adrenaline. Said stalker knew where I'd been sitting because he had already tripped over my foot. I wasn't even so sure he would stay out of the ladies' room. I tried to collect my sanity by repeating in my mind, "He's a fake! He's a fake!" I injure myself by suffering fools and giving them the benefit of a doubt. I've done that too long, and it doesn't help anybody. I was annoyed because I couldn't hear what the other people were saying. In fact, the only thing I heard was one lady saying, "In my wildest dreams!" with the same inflection Justin adds at the end of the live version. "What goes around comes around," thought I. Poor Justin must put up with creepy me at so many shows. As an aside, some good friends who are aware of the problem swung into helicopter mode. I didn't appreciate that enough. Later, I was able to laugh the sitchy-ation off in the name of religious tolerance.

So, anyway I was thinking a lot about truth and posturing, and how I usually don't have a hard time discerning between the two, so much as it is nearly impossible for me to tell somebody to their face, "You're full of junk." I used to be so much better, but that was when I was more disciplined (i.e., keeping the Commandments, though that constitutes offensive language today). I thought about how people judge each other, and opportunities are awarded accordingly. I rode my genius sister's coattails to glory, and now I'm left to fend for myself and everybody doesn't have the time to teach me simple arithmetic. I'm retarded and have it made in the shade so all other philosophies about achievement and goals don't apply. I figured we're all as retarded as we let the world tell us. There's got to be a way out of this curse of uselessness. (And I don't want to insult persons with bona fide physical limitations by comparing them to me.) I layered consideration of reactions, honesty, inappropriate affect, and fake affect; on top of the truth, delusion, and deception. I considered the play of the times - whether sarcasm or feigned humility is in-vogue for communicating the opposite. I reminded myself of my definition of love - helping another become as glorious as possible, not necessarily performing a miracle, but helping them move in the right direction. That's the only way I can fathom self-love, but then I fear I'm too awkward, too behind everybody to offer others help, to much of a miff monster to do anything but bungle, too simple to assist others on their level. Why say anything when I'm so far behind the curve?

The last two Sundays, I just sat down with the Evo in the woods. Everything felt just right, the space, the weather, the sky. I need to soak it in while I can. So what boots a few minutes of perfect copacetia? Then, I think of all the wars that have gone down. People on both sides can't be right? I think of all the bad ideas through the ages, where people claim supremacy based on some fiction. All these people a gazillion times better than I hear the battle cry only to be judged total morons in the next century. Why do people give control freaks any time of day? People who believe established superstition, fraud, or other manipulations and coercions are quite valid when I can't even be trusted to know what I had for breakfast. I thought about emotions and how so much of what binds people together is unverifiable. Two people latch on to some Atlantean, horoscopic, or past-life something and feel a connection. What's that about? It looks like bondage by mutual dupery, and that passes for love. I know, when you feel it, you know it, but I'm too damaged to even think about that just now. I have my own magical mystical draws, but where have they led but to insanity, inanity, unpopularity, and bottom-of-the-food-chain jobs. Does that mean I'm an artist?

So, as you can plainly see, my emotional development is too infantile and sicko-psycho to worry about whether fans are close personal friends, delusional, or deceptive. It is none of my affair. I shall surely go back on Udo patrol for letting all my insanity hang out, but there you have it. Me go read and try to resume brainwave transmission. And that, I hope, is my final whine.

I think we were talking about Justin's tour. Any news on whether he's still playing Tel Aviv? Justin's and Mike's pages aren't acknowledging the show, but the promoter's web site is still selling tickets. Not that that's any of my business, either.

I just polluted this page again. Let's talk about something nice. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts:

I read a few things online and came to find out I was totally wrong about safety and sleaze. It turns out Tel Aviv has a reputation for being rather libertine, and I was all afraid of breaking Shabbat. The cruise ship, after reading Justin's description, sounded so very tranquil. The stars, moonlight, waves, and gobs and oodles of kind and gentle people.

P.S. I was rather certain it was Justin who was stalking you. You are so blessed.

Justin would look lovely in an aqua Dupioni shirt. Wait. He always looks lovely.

So maybe the new relationships he is forging in the interim will result in some solo tours. Mike looks like he's gonna be really busy - thanks to Justin giving him some audiences, no?