I torture myself. Seriously. It's like that loose tooth that, as a child, you can't help but wiggle all day with your tongue until it's hanging in your mouth by a thread of your gums. I ususally grabbed at it, eventually- afraid of swallowing it- and ripped it out of my mouth. I have never minded the taste of blood. Does that make me a little odd to you?

Today I was seriously ready to quit. Seriously. I got so fucking frustrated with myself and making shitty mistakes on my records at work I was ready to just get up and walk out. But I know it's not horrible. I really don't suck at what I do, and if I did, I hope Erin would tell me. Fuck indicators. I hate them all.

I've been working on a drawing for almost a month now. I pick it up when I feel like it and add a few lines here and there. Black ink and for the most part all I have right now is a tree. But so far it's turning out to be something I don't hate looking at- which is unilke most of the things I draw which no one ever sees because I have a secret love for tearing up paper. I miss the days when I got paid $10 an hour to mess up copies just to shread them. Eating chinese take out sitting on cement pillars watching the traffic alone... Why can't I do that now? Oh yeah...

I hid in the bathtub until my skin resembled a raisin. You should remember to feel how the water tickles your ears as the level lowers past. I half expected my skin to peel off, like a boiled potato, slimy chunks of me, when I toweled off after spending at least 10 minutes just laying in the empty tub.

Today was spectacular, despite a few minor ridiculous incidents along the way. I wish I could have taken the time to tell the guys who stood next to Erin and I at the concert how awesome they were. We could have had almost too much fun.

So I ask you... Why do I always end up being around the "drunk guys" at shows? Why is it me that always gets knocked into and stepped on, beer spilt on? Don't get me wrong those are all typical incidents at shows and usually are to be expected, but taking the situation as a whole- the big picture of how the show was set, with seats and no mosh pit, the majority of those issues shouldn't have occured. Tonight I came very close to punching a guy in the face.

The show was amazing though. Seriously. He played his guitar with his teeth (again).

AND!

Erin and I saw Gotham National Bank. Corner of Van Buren and Wacker. I took pictures that will probably look shitty with my phone- but hopefully Erin will post the ones she took with her actual camera soon. It was worth the walk.

I drink coffee black when I know it tastes perfect.

I am now more convinced than ever that work is giving me what I refer to as "chair butt" because after one day of walking in the Loop- paths and routes I have done a million times over from school- my legs are sore from my ass down.

I saw a black welsch corgi and smoked a cigarette in the cancer survival garden. I also flicked a huge bean in the park.

Fuck Follett.

My thoughts, torn fragments settled around ideas of defeat and contempt.

Nothing productive.
Nothing inspirational.
Nothing good.

Call me a silly girl. It's the most truthful adjective I can think of for myself right now- not to mention the kindest in my vocabulary at the moment.

It's a Janis kind of day.

I just woke up. It's 6:23am and I just woke up. After twelve consecutive hours of heavy sleep I didn't want to get up. Twelve hours. I gave myself enough time to eat something and take off my shoes and then fell asleep. Glasses on. Jeans on.

I'm either getting sick or getting sicker.

And I'm going to be late today.

I woke up to the most wonderful thing in the world today, well a close second anyhow... An empty house. I stretched and made my way through the house to the coffee pot without pants. I had full intention of spending as much time today, without pants. Pantsless movie watching on the couch. Pantsless dancing/jumping on my bed. Pants-free sweeping up the mess I made last night in the kitchen. Lovely! - until my brother showed up unannounced. That was fun. So that's that I suppose. I had a good run of it. I even made it to the garage and back in the 40 degree weather (scandalous!). I look forward to doing all that again tomorrow.

I think I might be going crazy. In a manically awesome way. I think I'll draw instead.

I wear corduroy pants so you can't accuse me of walking too softly. On nights when shadows bend to reveal other things to my eyes, I sit awake. Moments like these I find myself very much aware of my toes. Nail, skin, blood, and bone. I can trace the lines of my circulation system in my mind. Tickles always hit me first in my stomach. Sometimes I really do wish the world would decide to spin backwards while I was sleeping. I could really wake up and feel change. Accept it. Live with it. Sometimes I wonder about the man who thought of money. I think if I could only keep one book for the rest of my life it would have to be the world's greatest thesaurus. I'm waiting for science to develop brain altering surgery that will allow one's subconscious to selectively highlight and delete certain memories; possibly alter the order of things that are thought of, such as pushing less desirable thoughts backward. I wish I could remember the first time I was brave enough to jump off a swing set. For some reason I feel like it should have been a milestone, thus important to be rememberbed. Testing life. Finding an element of courage in my shy youth. I actually really don't know what my diagnonsense is and I don't know what I look like with my eyes closed. Wear comfortable shoes. It's possible to become so incredibly bored that you lose your appetite. I once realized that I had been eating nothing but bread (more or less... less) for three straight days. I couldn't decide if that made me happy or not. Still can't. The sweet part is always the payoff, or vice versa.

I just survived 80 miles in the car with my mother. That would be a round trip figure. I also just spent 75 dollars on jewelry that I'm not sure I'll even like. I have expensive taste. My mother told me that Built to Spill reminded her of the Beatles...

It's Friday night and I have nothing better to do. I'm all dressed up and have no one around to admire me. Oh well.

I have issues with endings. More than likely that is the basis for my having problems finishing things that I start. These past few months carrying a story past 100 words has been a struggle, but then there are those that border on 1000 but I just can't seem to find the right ending. My fiction isn't so clear cut in my mind, like it used to be. I find myself lingering endlessly on details and wording- procrastinating. Too many good things come to an end too quickly for me. Maybe my brain is protesting. It's seriously almost a disease at this point. You've heard of anorexia or OCD, I'm sure, well this is almost like that. Combined. And having little to do with food (which is actually much like most cases of anorexia really).

I don't want it to end. I want to linger there in the moments of my prose forever, where life is simplified through text, as long as you're brave enough to read between the lines...

This will be fucked with in the near future... keep that in mind and feel free to comment if it strikes your fancy...

Laced with the fading traces of THC, she was barely able to remember why she started smoking in the first place. Sinking into the couch, Smoke 2 joints came on the stereo.
"Didn't we figure this one out last time?"
"Yeah probably."
They had decided to be clever, the two of them, and actually count out the number of joints Bradley was smoking in context of the song. Like so many other things, they instantly forgot the tally.

By the time Dave showed up with the beer they had, through combined efforts, consumed an entire bag of Cheetos. She had been careful to only use one hand in eating this toxically orange snack food and when she opened the door to let Dave in, his hands busy with the case of PBR, she smeared the orange film all over his face.
"Damn," he cried. "Got any more?"
"Thankfully no. Because we probably would have eaten those too." Lucy got up crumbling the empty bag and threw it away in the kitchen. Dave tossed her a beer.

These were the kind of kids that went out walking around at night and thought about stealing shopping carts or always had in depth discussions about starting their own band, even though none of them played instruments.

"Where's Joe? Off hiding in virtual reality?"
Lucy started laughing. "Tell him," she said.
"Joe and I are through."
"Really," Dave amused. "When did this happen?"
"About twenty minutes ago actually."
Dave cracked open his beer. She gulped hers.
"So what happened? I though we were all supposed to go out tonight."
"Yeah. He sent me an instant message today claiming it was imperative that he stay home tonight for his guild's scheduled raid."
"Holy shit! That's like the third weekend in a row!"
"I know."
"So what? Did you just call him?"
"No! Better!" Lucy chimed in.
"I signed on to the game and whispered for him to meet me outside of Stormwind."
"No fucking way!"
"I got my character dancing and shouted for all of Warcraft to read that he was an asshole and would never be fucking me again."
"Holy shit!"
"Yeah."

The three sat down on the couch together, beers in hand, and listened as Date Rape came on the stereo. "So basically you spent fifty bucks to date and dump some loser online?"
"Shut up," she scoffed.
They all started to laugh.