...we both go down together...

I'm missing a Jewish country-rock queen: please find and return to me care of post. By which I mean phone, email, fax or telegram.

All my problems are the result of the sexual revolution. No one knows the rules anymore. This thought isn't original, but rears it's head every Sunday and the occasional Tuesday afternoon. The rest of the week I mull over the possibilities, debate the inevitabilities, or what I hope them to be.

Even if you don't know the rules, you must have some intrinsic idea when you're breaking them. And if you aren't serious, if you're having fun at my expense, you're breaking them. I've only ever been a nice girl. For what godforsaken sin in some past life do I deserve having the intricacies of this game played out over instant text messaging?

Has anyone even considered the absolutely nonsensical nature of text messaging, anyway? You are holding the phone in your hand, for the love of God just call me.

Maybe you, too, should take some lessons from Humphrey Bogart

I need to be decided on a course of action. Well I am decided, on one thing at least. Punctual is out, comfortable will be for others. But we're still not decided on the other one, and our head hurts.

No they'll never catch me now.