Marquis’ Intimate Diary

TUESDAY, 11 APRIL, 2000, PHILADELPHIA

First day back at work after a gruelling and frightfully debaucherous trip to N’awlins, and I get these emails from co-workers:

From: Heather
Subject: confess

> Is that what I think it is on your neck?

I have *no* idea what you're talking about.

I just walked into a door, that’s all.

…well, okay, you dragged it out of me. She beats me. There. I said it.

From: Tiffany
Subject: hickey

>>> i know one when i see one dammit!

>>I walked into a door.

> Adam is being sexist and said he is sure it’s a chick since “chicks
> like everyone to know who they own.”
> I think he should get a beat down for that one!

This baby could be anyone’s. I feel so white trash about it all. I don’t know who the “father” is.

In actuality, I know precisely who the “father” is. And “The Hoover” knows as well. I affix you with an accusing stare and remind you that we are all far past high school antics.

Furthermore I have only two courses of action to take. 1) Wear a turtleneck. I despise turtlenecks! 2)Fabricate some believable story like, oh, say, “I walked into a door.”

Never mind that it would take a great deal of precision and skill to damage oneself in such a place and in such a manner by “walking into a door.”

Ooooo, there will be hell to pay! Just you woit, ‘Enry ‘Iggins, just you woit!

I wrap my lanky locks like a cowl around my neck and I curse thy name!