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I'm 32 and my body is falling apart, through no fault of my own. I like to think I took pretty good care of it, so this must be genetics.

Stomach, shot to hell. I miss food. Fuck, I miss food. I hate feeling like puking or laying down much of the time. It's a severe quality of life issue, let me tell you. This is a constant fucking issue. And yet, the thing I'm most worried about now, is waking up after my surgery on Tuesday and not having my ovaries. Everyone I've talked to says their doctor said the same thing, "Well, I won't know until I'm in there." Yeah, that's fine, doc, but I'm telling you, unless the left one is BLACK AND SPITTING FIRE, LEAVE IT THERE. Give me the goddamned option, will ya? I know I'm not twenty-something with a husband, amazing career, and a house, but give me the fucking chance, will ya? I COULD NOT get him to guarantee he wouldn't touch the other ovary and that both makes me want to scream and cry. I'm terrified of losing them both. I know that's silly. I know there are plenty of babies to go around and I know that people go through worse things. But my goddamned stomach has made life difficult as of late and I really don't need to have to adjust to being infertile as well. I really don't. Give me that hope that I will find the right person and we will make another human being, as ill-advised in "this modern world" and selfish and absolutely terrifying it may seem, give me that option.

My sister had this done and they said the same thing to her. And because they found cancer, they took EVERYTHING out. I'm worried that's the genetic bit. I honestly haven't had any trouble with the left ovary, but you know, "I won't know until I get in there." And I'm 85-90% sure the left one is fine, but all I can think about is that other percentage, being unconscious and waking up sterile. Is it because it's an older male doctor? I repeatedly told him to leave me with an option, to leave the left one alone. And he tried to reassure me, tell me he's sure it's going to be fine, but when pressed he had to cover his ass with "I won't know until I get in there." All I could think about when driving home from the pre-operation meeting last Thursday was, "I'm alone, no boyfriend, no one to tell this to, and I'm going to wake up without the ability to experience that kind of love, all out of my control."

Fucking doctors. Doesn't work, take it out. Never trusted 'em.
I'm scared. I admit it. And I can't shake it. It's not going away.
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Journal, you live.

I am sitting here in my Shanghai market robe, whiskey and water, fresh from the shower, waiting. For the show to start, for my inconvenient affliction to subside (one of the gut, not the head). Why not write. Hello words. How've ya been?

I went to NOMA today, to see the Disney exhibit. It was quite nice, except for the Princess & The Frog pieces. The rest of the exhibit was made up of original work, many of it pieces that could stand alone as art, not animation fodder (not that I'm knocking animation, mind you). But all of the Princess & The Frog pieces were "digital print on paper". I suppose this might be due to the fact that Disney has to market the shit out of everything these days and perhaps they were still using the original work for a book or something. Still, for someone who likes to get really close, look at how things were made, this was disappointing. There is nothing human or meaty in a pixelated line. So it goes.

The rest of the museum was average to slightly above. Their collection of Cornell boxes was quite good, the rest was to be expected. Even the Kollwitz exhibit was fair to middling. Still, I could spend another hour or two or three roaming. I didn't even get to see the photography. They do have a rather top-notch sculpture garden, but it is closed to restoration.

And I hate those assholes who point outside and say, "now, there's the real art", but it may be true for New Orleans. My love for City Park knows no bounds. My love for NOLA, exponentially similar. I have been adopted.
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Moving offers up little savory/unsavory tidbits. Tidbits, what a horrible word. It stays.
I found the box of you, no, fuck it, of the Ex (numero uno) tonight while looking to decimate my Pandora's box, literally, figuratively. I'll dismantle my stupid teenage bitterness and use it to house jewelry instead.

Found the video and was scared of it, scared of watching you beg me to come back. Haven't watched it since my young and flailing days in L.A. But instead, I found it sweet, endearing even. Despite the shit, the utter shit you put me through, you did love me like no one else and I gave you everything. I was shocked to hear you admit it, on tape, for posterity. You looked so fresh-faced, sad-faced, inspired by my "cemetery day". It makes me want to reach out to you, just to say, "hello, how are you doing?", but I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't be able to throw an "asshole" at the end of that sentence. You @ 24, fresh from losing, something you were never accustomed to, is not you @ 36. I know you have regressed, forgotten everything I tried to teach you, show you, about being a good person. I know it because I saw it in that coffee shop what...5? years ago and I saw the slow, snake-smile creep over your face, heard it in the phone call afterward suggesting we have sex, "for old times sake".

There will always be someone, someone who pushes the buttons, and you are mine. You exist now in a small, black bag and we should keep it that way. I simply felt the need to purge just a little bit more, in memoriam.
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Oh my god, I want to lick that man's face.
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I'm sitting on the front porch and shit, it's a beautiful day. Ending now, sun setting as the tourists cross the street, take photos of the bright balconies to my left, across the street. Birds, fly across, sunlight setting their wings in golden x-ray. Something, somewhere, close, is going on, but I don't know what and I haven't the energy to find out.

Mid-week last week I found out our family dog died. Charlie. The kind of dog you call the Best Dog Ever. My Mother and Father and I picked him out from the shelter when he was a puppy. He was put to sleep last week at the age of thirteen. Lung cancer. It was quick, and unfortunately, I'm guessing, most likely, painful. I wasn't there. My Mom was. She had to give him his last walk because my Dad couldn't do it. Just couldn't. That dog was a good a friend to him as any human and more loyal and kind-hearted than most. I can't believe I won't see him again and just like those close to me wish they could be here, I wish I could be there, just to be there, just to be another body bearing the weight of a loved one lost.

The next night, on a second date with someone (yes, I spent the night. No, we didn't have sex.), I woke up at 3:30am with intense pain in my abdomen that ramped up quite suddenly. Within an hour, I was at the hospital, sweating, nauseated, and ready to pass out from the pain. It was similar to the ovarian cyst I had four months ago, but stronger, much stronger. They give you a chart with these simply-drawn faces to gauge your pain, one-ten. And it's funny, because most people look like a five all the time. I placed this at a clear 8. I'm not mentioning this to garner any kind of sympathy. In fact, I hate talking about it, haven't told a lot of people and only told my family because I did end up getting admitted to the hospital that night. I got out on Friday and my date, as unsure of the future of this as I may be, was there for most of the ordeal. I only got home from staying at his house a few hours ago. Maybe not a wise decision, since I am so unsure and he seems so sure, but sometimes a girl needs to be taken care of, and for me to allow that to happen takes a lot out of me. I'm exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, physically. I have a 5cm "fluid-filled sac" in my ovary that could decide to decrease, explode, or do a little dance once again and that kind of pisses me off. I wanted it out, but doctors being "logical", didn't want to risk general anesthetic for something that is "likely" to go away. So yeah, for anyone wondering, that may happen to read this that is, I'm fine and I'm sorry if I'm even worse at communicating now. I go back in Wednesday for a check-up. The worst part is, I have no guarantee this is not the New World Order for my body and me, if every month, in between that Special Happy Time, I'll get woken up, or forced to leave work to be taken to the Hospital. At least I have health insurance. Seriously. This is how people go bankrupt. This, is how.

There's talk of putting me on birth control to stem these little growths, which I'm none too happy about. Jill on b.c. is a paranoid Jill, no matter the dose, no matter the type. I really don't like it. But I do like morphine. Morphine was my damned friend and Vicodin is not. And neither is hospital food, or doctors who tell and don't listen. Here's an idea, try learning some compassion and not being so cocky. Try setting your goddamned coffee down at the nurse's station before you waltz into my room to tell me I might lose an ovary and then leave before I've had time to process it enough to ask some goddamned questions. Just a thought.

I'm annoyed. My body is betraying me in more ways than one and all I want is a nice iced coffee or a beer even though it's probably the worst thing I could have right now, due to the fact that for the past year or so my intestines have decided to mutiny as well.

And I realize there are so many people out there with much bigger problems, but I really just needed to get this out.
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The surprise went well. My family didn't suspect a thing. My mom called me a smartass and then hugged me and cried. My sister squealed like a little kid and ran across the room, and cried. My Dad was equally as happy, but crying isn't his bag. It was nice. And it is nice. If only they didn't live in such a shitty town. Seriously. I spent more time with my niece and that was really good, to get to know her more as an adult, one-on-one.

It's so depressing here and Winter only makes it worse. Life is so easy and that is one of the biggest reasons I left. It's so easy to slip into patterns here, become complacent. Even in Lawrence. I love Lawrence, but...well, things are just easier here. Things work. Like roads, officials, schools. That, and it's a tad bit boring, because of, in spite of...whatever.

I went to the storage unit today to retrieve my coat, some misc. items and it was more stressful than I had anticipated. Being surrounded by things, so many THINGS, not knowing when or where or how I'll move them somewhere. Wanting so many of those THINGS, yet not really needing any of them...except my art supplies, CDs, it goes... What do I really need? I would LIKE to have my oil paints, but that's a little snowball right there. If I want my oils, then I want canvas and tools, and a studio. Maybe I should just leave it here and see what I can do without it for awhile. Still, it would be nice to find them since they will go bad and they are expensive. Shit this is dull.
At any rate, I need to decide what and where my future is. I can't keep this crap in storage forever and sooner or later my friends will want me to come get some of my furniture, not to mention that it was getting humid in the unit and water was beading on the floor and ceiling. I'm worried for the paintings, books, photos...

I'm sitting in a coffee shop I spent a good chunk of my teenage years in and it's messing with me. The whole town messes with me. I sleep in my childhood room with a ceiling full of stars and dream 12-year-old dreams.

My crazy family sang Happy Birthday to Jesus on Christmas. My sister made a birthday cake.
I have it all on video. Oh yes.
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After getting knocked back twice in one week by men who were giving me clear (admittedly one more than the other) signals, I can honestly say I feel like the biggest sack of undesirable shit on the planet.


Dec. 19th, 2008 10:38 pm
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The best way to get over someone is to really get to know them, to get to know them and lose respect for them. I damn near fell for someone who will be married (for the 3rd time) in March. And the plan was to tell him at Christmas. Just to tell him, to get it out of my system.

But, last night a few of us co-workers (of which he is one) went out for drinks. I divulged my crush to a fellow female employee (and this is why I sometimes don't like women). She understood, a little too well it seems. She said if she weren't married she'd like to fuck him too. I said, "yes, well, it's a little more than that." But every chance she got after that she would show me text messages from him, tell me they grope each other on the dance floor when everyone goes out. Well, we were actually headed out dancing, and yes, he showed up, with fiance (mousey, boring, not a good match, but now I think maybe she's too good for HIM). He proceeded to flirt with my co-worker even going so far as to tell her he "wished he could play tonight." Which, of course, being a catty female, she told me, knowing full well my feelings for him. Low self-esteem makes people act like assholes.

I wouldn't have liked this man quite as much had he not seemed to very much like me (and seemed to be a really good person, of which he primarily is). And maybe he does, if only a little, because the flirting he did with me was a bit...different. And he's not a total jackass. He does have many good qualities. But it's a shame his baggage gets stuck in the chute. Still, it is clear that he is a monstrous flirt, and that I cannot abide. When I am with someone, I am WITH someone. I don't do that casual, mindless bullshit and I damn well expect the same in return. So this fantasy future is just that. And this has me feeling that he is not as good as me or better than me, like I previously thought, but that I just might be too good for him. His disrespectful behavior combined with his mentioning to me that "Jason had some pharmaceuticals" (what the fuck?) last night has accelerated my getting over it greatly...

That is, after crying in front of my co-worker and ALL the way home from Uptown.

So, last night, at 2a.m. I sent him an email and told him everything. I really don't give a shit if he feels awkward or if things are weird because I hold the deck now. Plus, I have a date tomorrow, and this one, this one IS interested in me, sincere, cute, political and smart. So, fuck it.

Many things were broken last night, not the least of them being my new teapot when I dropped it as I was taking it out of my car. :( I just may be more sad about that than Man Who Clearly Has Issues. If that's not entirely true, it is because I mourn the feelings and not the person, perhaps.

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OkCupid, 1st email:

"Hi , my name is Jesse. I did read your profile and I do hope this letter does not bore to you or even make me look like an asshole. I looked in the mirror but I don't really know what one looks like so I didn't see what you're talking about. =P I didn't quite understand something, you said something about being around for 3 months because you had a calling, was that meaning 3 months here in New Orleans, or that's until you find out the reason for your calling? And curiously, what have you found that calling to be, that is if you've figured it out yet? That just gave me grounds for short potry. Maybe it was my heart crying out free falling tears down towards a dry hard surface evaporating them into transparent vapors of hopless dreams before even the slightest of touch from the earth! That was good, I'm gonna have to write that one down! That was deep. I like potry and I was giving you a sample of some free style. It's my art, and I assume, it's like your paintings to you. I can draw too but I've never tried to paint. I'm good with pencil, charcoal, and even pens. I do think you're interesting and even though we are a few years apart, age is but a number sometimes. I am over 25 though. I guess that gives me some brownie points. Everyone is a bit immature sometimes but I don't over do it. I do have ambitions or goals but as of now they are starting to become a living dream. I am a new actor and an agency called Hale Talent has just signed me! I'm so excited. I was a featured extra in a movie with Jim Carrey and Ewin McGreggor called, "We Love You Phillip Morris," and they play two guys in a gay relationship! I really like Jim Carrey but other than this movie being serious, he has done something he's never done. He's done some other serious roles in the past but mostly comedies, but in this one, him and Ewin McGreggor have a pretty explecit sex scene. I am not bothered by gay relationships but I just never saw Jim Carrey doing a part like that. I was also in a movie called "Midnight Bayou" that was originally a book written by Anne Rice. I was just a regular extra in a few background scenes and it's showing on Lifetime around next August. I am in the process of filming a movie with Brittney Murphey and Jason Taylor also airing on Lifetime. Matter of fact my last day shooting is Thursday. It's in a house off of Prytania in New Orleans. It's about 2 guys who one's parents kill the other guys mother while they were children. The two guys grow up best friends and either not knowing one's parents killed the other one's mother. The murdered woman is Brittney Murphey's grandmother in the movie and I'm a friend of the two guys. I'm in 6 scenes so far. I just realized that this is a really long first letter and I'm gong to let you go before I either bore you or you think I'm weird. I just like to talk and always have something to talk about. Well take care sweety and I hope I didn't take up any other better needed time. I hope to hear from you soon.

Like potry that was.
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I really need to talk to someone, but it's late and really, what are they going to say that I don't already know. No one is going to solve this. I just need to talk about it in some way, some roundabout, only-I-really-know way so that I don't do something really stupid. I don't like keeping things in.

Every night, every morning, and so many times during the day, all I can think of. Should I go back to percentages? Ok...65-70% sure. That's high, right? Taking into account my past m.o., it's high. Still, I could be wrong. The problem is, I just want to know.

I've made plans. I'm a girl who needs deadlines and the clock is really running out here.
I'll know, someone will know, by Christmas.

Because if television, if movies, have taught me anything, it's that at Christmas, you tell people the truth.
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I woke up at 10 am today to a Thanksgiving text message from a good friend. It was a nice way to start the day, so I decided to keep that going.

The New Orleans sky was filled with bags of jumbled cotton balls, darkness lurking in the distance. I rode my bike down Decatur, camera slung over my shoulder, down past the moldering hipster stores, past the moldering hipsters, past the tourist shops, past the tourists. I decided to "be a tourist in my own (home)town" and got a sm. black coffee and beignets at Cafe Du Monde while thinking about Apocalypse vs. Utopia. I took some photos. I wandered over the levee to the river and sat down to watch the gulls, the egrets, the ships and to listen to the tourists complain about being hustled by "where did you get your shoes". Someone should have told them. I sat down on the wooden steps leading to the sandy, lightly littered banks of the Mississippi, soaked in the humidity of November, the slight breeze coming off the muddy water, and I thought of you.

I sat there a long time, long enough to hear "Do You Know What It Means, To Miss New Or-leeeeans" at least five times. I helped an old man who was deaf and mute by taking a photo of him sitting on the steps of the levee. He tried to explain to me why he was there with gestures. He shook his head, seemed sad yet eager, and pointed to the water, then pointed to a high point on the steps. And I think he was referring to Katrina.

I rode home, the opposite direction, taking any street I fancied. Coffee in one hand, the other hand gripping my "Sweet Ride", my pink and purple nightmare with the one working brake, and still I thought of you.

I'm home now, in my lovely little room, listening to the laundry and the rain. I have the back door open and all I can see is green, green, green. The boys are gone. It's just me in this big, quiet house. And I miss my family, but it's ok. I barely have any money, and the bills keep coming, but it's ok. My job, like many jobs in this country right now, is unstable, but it's ok. I've got a million things I want to do today, this month, in my life, but it's ok. Something about this city makes it ok. There's a reason I'm here, and I'm not entirely sure what it is, but I have an idea. All I know is, it's the only place I've been truly comfortable being alone.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

And, please try not to go nuts with the purchasing tomorrow. Plastic and price tags won't save us. It's what you do, who you are, what you say, not what you buy.

(xposted to
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so tired.
so much to do.
but the sudden realization has me,
no, no, no, no, no,
not the l-word.
how can I deal with that?
how is that possible?

I knew there was something unseen driving me here, keeping me here. is it this? it feels like this. and there is nothing I can do about it and that is horrible.

stupid biology.
stupid chemistry.
stupid timing.
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So, last Monday I went to le hopital due to sudden and fairly severe abdominal pains. Thought it might be an appendicitis, but turns out it was an ovarian cyst. Took 6 hours, a CT scan (which was kind of scary, I must say), lots of poking, prodding, tests, and my favorite, an IV to figure this out. I hate IVs. Blood doesn't bother me, but metal, stitches, broken bones do. It's not the pain, just...feels so unnatural. Also, apparently I have small veins, so this involved multiple sticks with the needle. Yay! ANYway, this morning, 6 days later, suddenly have a big bruise where the IV was.
WTF indeed.


Nov. 12th, 2008 09:25 pm
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I apparently like to repeat myself and even use the same exact phrases. Ah well, let's just consider this new post "practice" for possible bloggins.
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My life is very strange.
I work for a music-based non-profit in New Orleans, and I'm discovering I may have accidentally moved here. The term "Webmaster" has been used to refer to my position. Which, right now only includes some kind of go-between for merch, office tasks, photography, uploading and writing item descriptions. I have no real title....yet. I drive a 1995 Range Rover on loan from work and it makes me feel like Sarah Palin or an asshole. Is there a difference? At least gas is cheaper now, I guess.

Half the city is still devastated and there are constant and insistent reminders. Even before the flood, NOLA wasn't exactly the beacon of functionability (word? don't care). It's taking me awhile to adjust to this slow-pace, this lucky-if-you-can-get-3-things-done-in-a-day attitude, but it's coming.

I work odd jobs serving wine and beer, soon working once a week in a gallery on Royal and possibly bartending. Last week I served champagne and beer to well-off white people at a home/kids/women's apparel store in Lakeview. Lakeview was very much affected by Katrina and this was their 2-year "We're Back" anniversary.

Last week I gave a couple hours to City Park clean-up and this weekend I'll hopefully be introducing Fundred to a bunch of local kids @ RUBARB in the 9th Ward as well as intermittently helping out with the NOLA Bookfair. Which, incidentally, will be taking place JUST OUTSIDE MY DOOR.

Speaking of my door. I live in a big house on the corner of Frenchman and Chartres with three guys. If you're not familiar, this is a big, big music area of town with jazz, blues, rock, you name it. Right now I can hear a trumpeter warming up. It's like this nightly. Really gets going at about 12:30am. But I've learned to tune it out and I love my little room and my own bathroom so much that I don't care about the disgusting kitchen or the noise or the higher rent. You only live once, right?
Besides, the November evening bike rides through the Quarter and the Marigny more than make up for it.

I haven't made "art" (and I suppose by that I mean painted) in a long time and I feel bad about that. There's really no way I'll get my project done by Dec. 5th, but I'm kind of going with the flow. There will be other contests and S. Louisiana isn't going anywhere. is. Glug, glug, glug.
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I've moved to a very busy, music-heavy part of New Orleans (Frenchman & Chartres) and I now pay twice as much rent. But, the reasoning is that I have my own room/bathroom (sharing a house with three guys) and you only live once, right. I mean, you can step out on the porch and hear blues, jazz, bluegrass, rock, African drumming, you name it. And today, I tried getting used to this new area (previously I was in Mid-City) and it's difficult. Maybe I DO need a buffer, a little distance from the distractions. New Orleans already distracts me enough. I've never seen a city get in its own way so much before. But, it's an amazing place and I'll just have to acquire more focus and concentration.

And today it felt tense in the city. I saw more Obama posters, heard more heated conversations than previously.
I dread what will happen if Obama doesn't win...for many reasons.

Last night I helped out at KK Projects and that's a whole other story.
But, I got to meet Mel Chin (Uma Thurman was there too, but being an art nerd, I was way more excited about Chin). I introduced myself and he was very, very nice and approachable. I told him I was part of a group in KS doing his Fundred project and he knew it was Lawrence. He got my name (full name) and then sent over someone who's helping him with it so we could talk. I think I might be getting involved with the project down here. I hope.

At any rate, I'm on my second High Life and I think it might be time for dinner, yo.

Also, boys are still fucking stupid and I'm really tired of working on THEIR schedules.
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I've become one of those assholes, the ones with the laptops who camp out in the corner, cords running like lifeblood across sticky tabletops and chairs. It's because I don't have internet at home and it's because I don't have a fucking job.

I did, however, have an interview today for photo archiving/digitizing with a gallery in the Quarter. I really hope I get it. If not, I really hope I get the Tipitina's gig. If not, I really hope I find something soon, since my bills don't seem to be disappearing and I need coffee money (read: money to make money). I also need to stay here at least until December to finish a rather ambitious art/documentary project. This city really is something else...this future Atlantis.

(edited to run in the time allotted)

I'm making it my mission to go to Voodoo Fest.
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Sooo, I bit the pavement yesterday right in front of the streetcar. Nevermind that it's embarrassing, but it fucking hurt. I simply misjudged the angle of my bike tires crossing the tracks at Lee Circle. The trolley driver yelled, asking if I was ok. I said yes and sheepishly wheeled my bike to the other side. My head didn't hit the pavement, but it jerked so hard that now I feel like I have whiplash, and I definitely have a large road rash on my forearm. It matches the other arm now (only more severe), since the other night, as I was watching The Science of Sleep in bed a roach crawled over my shoulder. I freaked out, thinking it was a spider, jumped up and promptly stumbled into the table.

So, yeah, I'm kind of amazed at how sore I am today. My neck, shoulders from hitting the ground and my legs and ass from biking so damn much.

Still, it's good to be here. One bike ride through the Quarter at sunset to meet a friend for beers at Molly's is enough to remind me of that.
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So, it's entirely possible that I could not have a job after tonight. I just don't make enough money for the non-profit. Weird, huh. I understand they have to bring in more than they're paying me, and even though it's close, I think I do that. Plus, there's only a week left and I'd really like to finish it out. Weh. What can I do except try my best today.

Rode the bike to work (Mid-City to Uptown) yesterday and it was pretty damn easy. I'm diggin' this flat city bike-riding. My ass, however, is not. I'm reluctant to buy a bike seat that costs more than I paid for the bike, but I may have to if I don't want to walk around like I've just been freshly fucked.

Feel weird today. Off. I don't like having time before I go to work, like to get up, get ready, and go...maybe spend an hour at the coffee shop close to work. But any more time than that and I started getting antsy, like I'm going to be late, have to constantly watch the clock, only do things I can get done in the allotted time. Also, fuck this getting off work at 10/10:30. Again, weh.

Jesus I'm boring today.

May 2010

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