About once a year, I contact my ex boyfriend to see how he's doing, and to give my impoverished ego a bit of a stroke. He's the only guy I dated who has a bit of fame associated with himself. Come July, he'll have another record out, but it won't be on Post Human records, as that label went under.

I remember thinking that he was going to make a mistake by quitting George Mason to persue music.

"You're a junior. You have one more year--why not just finish it out?"

This year, the impetus for contacting him was to get back a pencil drawing I had done of him. Back then, he still had his mohawk. He looks much better, having gone the Patrick Stewart / Andre Agassi route.

"LA women SUCK. They're ALL gold diggers," he wrote.

There's a part of me that hopes he'll elaborate on it, and I can hear about the details--a pyrrhic sense of satisfaction.

"This might be weird... Would you mind if I asked for the picture back?" I asked. It's one of the few pieces of art that I did that still exist (if indeed he can find it or even kept it), and it reminds me that at one time, I used to be able to create things... that I was talented.