what is the word

Today I want to take a long walk. I have bare legs that need to see the sun before I get to Florida next week & I want to take a long walk & at the end of it buy a pair of shoes, but I can't because I have Belkys's ATM card & she has mine.
You may have noticed that I put up a post yesterday & took it down. I half want to put it up again but it was such a mean post, such a petty, overly personal thing I couldn't stand the sight of it on my quiet navy page & so down it came. To those of you who commented, thanks, & I will say that what I did do in response to the asshole in question was to send him the meanest email I've ever sent anyone. & guess what? I feel better! Hit me up if you want a copy. Or his email address, or phone number, or place of business. Hell hath no fury like a blogger scorned.
Shall we think, then, instead, of something pleasant? Of my boo drinking beers at the Chipp Inn in Chi-town? Of not-model-material Noelle getting kicked off ANTM last nite? Of perfect Kate Moennig? Of Paulie getting married? What about a passage from Orlando that made me happy as I read it on the train this morning even as my head was pounding & I was dehydrated & hot & I could actually smell my own BO? Here it is:

Nature, who has played so many queer tricks upon us, making us so unequally of clay and diamonds, of rainbow and granite, and stuffed them into a case, often of the most incongruous, for the poet has a butcher's face and the butcher a poet's; nature, who delights in the muddle and mystery, so that even now (the first of November, 1927) we know not why we go upstairs, or why we come down again, our most daily movements are like the passage of a ship on an unknown sea, and the sailors at the masthead ask, pointing their glasses to the horizon: Is there land or is there none? to which, if we are prophets, we make answer 'Yes'; if we are truthful we say 'No'; nature, who has so much to answer for besides the perhaps unwieldy length of this sentence, has further complicated her task and added to our confusion by providing not only a perfect rag-bag of odds and ends within us -- a piece of a policeman's trousers lying cheek by jowl with Queen Alexandra's wedding veil -- but has contrived that the whole assortment shall be lightly stitched together by a single thread. Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that.