1. No, Josh does not want to fuck me. He's a famousass screenwriter, who has his pick of many lithe leggy gals, but focuses on one, who ain't me.
2. Enough with the fucking panties already. And people think I'm weird. The amount of talk and obsession that's going on around the internets about the panty-sniffing is ludicrous, and the ones that are pretending to be inteleckshul while pontificating are the funniest, and most telling. Oooooer, missus, we do love a bit of panty-sniffing, don't we? For the record: the articles of clothing we swapped were favorite shirts - I sent "Jesse" an old sweatshirt of mine so beat up the sleeves were shredded, and he sent me an old Tommy Hilfiger green cotton knit pullover and a really ugly Banana Republic shirt. It was more for sentimentality and comfort than for sniffing, although fuck knows what Janna did with mine. I didn't sniff "Jesse's" shirts, although I did wear the green one to bed and cried all over it the night he shot himself, and the night he died. I also did send "Jesse" washed but new American Apparel boyshorts, as a joke, so he could open the package in front of his ex-wife "Krista," who was trying to get back together with him, we thought it'd drive her off for sure. Ohyeah, and I also sent "Jesse" a pair of brand new copper lame' boyshorts, which he allegedly wore under his alleged jeans when he did a gig with his friend "Cakey's" alleged band. I do not now, nor have I ever, possessed a pair of BVDs or other male undergarments that purportedly belonged to "Jesse Jubilee James," for the purpose of sniffing or other prurient acts. I can't speak for Janna. Alles klar?