It is not for a lack of things happening, but I have lost interest in writing about my life lately, and I wish I could claim that it was because I was so happy and so busy all the time that I cannot write here, but it is probably more of the opposite of that, that I really am not that thrilled about anything these days, that I don't do much, that I watch too much television, too many movies, and I have been reading, not reading that Murakami book for what seems like the last two months. My inability to finish that book, to even touch it, discourages me so much. When I see that bookmark only about halfway through it, or when I come across a book I really want to read, and think no, I have to finish that Murakami book before I start anything else, it discourages me so much, and I feel dead and wonder how I got this way, wonder what it is that prevents from finishing this - why it is that right now when I am jobless and have nothing to do, why it is during this period that I have so much time that I am probably accomplishing less than I have ever accomplished in my life. Something about art arising out of adverse conditions, that there have to be other forces pressing on you, and that what you write is a release. Sort of like partying and being jobless.

I never feel like raging lately. There is no desire to cut loose, to get wasted and let it all shake out on the dancefloor. But when I used to be working, every night when I got off, I was ready to cut loose, footloose, to let out everything that had been held for eight or so hours. Without tension and stress there is nothing to release - I am in a constant state of release, deflated, always skirting the line of boredom. No steam in the kettle.

Finding sex work through Craigslist is getting harder and harder and thank god, the Princeton Review starts back up for me on Wednesday. I have twenty three dollars left. My metrocard expired yesterday. I am going to buy one for twenty one dollars today. That will leave me with two dollars cash until I can make some money.

I got stoned last night off of the rest of this joint Niki left here about a week ago. It was awesome. I listened to Gillian Welch and imagined two excellent stories that I am going to write tonight after I go see the Tim Hawkinson show at the pay what you can (a dime?) night at the Whitney. These stories are so awesome and I sketched out the outlines of them last night, real worried that I wouldn't remember them today. I definitely would not have, and I was a little nervous to look at my notes, thinking they would be unintelligible, but I understand what I was thinking and hopefully I can translate those remembered thoughts to paper.