February 26, 2006

We wandered through London’s Indian museum, vaguely disappointed by the lack of saggy tits. All the natives in the photos had firm, tanned, fuckable bodies. Some of them wore leather. I expected more gaping wounds, tired flesh, and uncontained human suffering.

On the way out, we paused briefly to photograph the cases full of dead bears and tenderness.

Outside, the wind howled through the empty fort and Laura refused to play “Cowboys and Indians” with me in the snow. “It’s fucking cold, asshole,” she said.