Adventures in Job Hunting

Right now, I am sitting at Gates Computer #2 at the Beatley Central Branch of the Alexandria Library. I have signed up for this computer for 3-4:oo. I will not be on this computer until the end of my time though, because I am supposed to meet up with Sarah at that end time, 4:oo, at the Kingstown Starbucks.

What a jetsetting life I lead, eh?

The answer unfortunantly is negative.

I am in the library right now, not because I had a hankering for the latest hardcover bestsellers, whatever they may be. No, I am here right now because I still have yet to tell my mom that I quit working at Yes, and I always work on Saturdays from 1-9. So, yes, I lied and am a horrible person. But, right now is really not the time to tell her, it is my cousin's baptism tomorrow and so my grandma and numerous aunts and uncles are staying at my house - and it would just be major trauma with uninvited questions from every single relative asking me about it. Thanks, but I will hold off on ordering that. Bring that back to your kitchen and tell the chef to fucking sit on it.

So, I went to the library. Actually, first I went to Fresh Fields, to buy some Veggie Booty for my aunt, who asked me to pick her some up when I went to work.

And I really am going to tell my mom about Yes - I am just waiting until an opportune time (aka when I actually have a new job.) Okay, so yesterday was Day One in our Adventures in Jobhunting:

I went to my interview at that bobo "market research firm," all the way out in the boonies of Dunn Fucking Loring Virginia. The drive was the first thing that made me hate the possible job. The second thing was the office itself. It was so empty and quiet and no one was in the reception area. I thought about fleeing, right then and there, just saying Fuck You to the world of employment, to our need for money to sustain ourselves, to air-conditioned, flourescent-lit offices that are always a couple degrees too cold. The human factor makes these places all the colder. So, I chickened out on my desire to go run with the animals in some idyllic dream of Natural Man, and walked into another room, looking for people. I found them and frankly, I wished I had not. They wore light kahkis, because it was after Easter, and you know, you can do that now. And they were aliens and I wanted to see them naked and wondered if they had ever been. If they had been born in these dreary clothes and bad haircuts? What do they look like naked? Fucking? Eating? Do these people even shit? They must, everyone does, but there is no way. They handed me the application to fill out and I filled it out, like the good little boy who wants to get paid, and then I was interviewed.

Oh, god. Interviewed is an entirelly inappropriate word. I watched one of those scary women perform a monolgue in a tiny office. That's what it was. It was performance art. What else could these surreal experience have been? That's why there were no people here. That's why her office looked a little to sparse. It was all a weird piece of performance art. She kept on saying The Company. No one in real life says that. I kept on daydreaming during her monologue, realzing that I would never work here, I could never do this, what the fuck am I doing? Why don't I just leave now? Break free - fucking get up and leave - who fucking cares? And, I seriouslly considered just saying I had to go to the bathroom and then running for my car. But, I didn't. And she finished yakking and asked if I had any questions. I said No. But, she somehow mistook that for a question and gave me a way too long answer to a question that I did not even ask. And, then when there was a pause, I stood up and extended my hand to shake hers, and what I really should have done was slapped her upside the head and asked What the fuck is wrong with you? - she shook my hand and told me that they would be in contact with me soon.

Whoo, thank god. And Martin, I'm sorry to possibly degrade and/or pardoy the seriousness and solemnity of your words, but as I was walking out to my car, I sighed, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, free at last!"

I drove to Dupont Circle, straight from there, to apply at SoHo Tea and Coffee, a gay coffehouse in that gayest of neighborhoods, and it felt so good to be somewhere normal, to see men walking together, to see hipsters in Dark clothes, and punky high school girls in bright ones. Whereas, The Company was cold and air-conditioned, SoHo was breathable and perfect. They had their doors open to let in the wonderfully t-shirty spring air. I filled out the very short application. The last thing on the application asked me to list three of my qualities. Because I was in a good mood, perhaps too good a mood to be filling out employment applications, I wrote:
-can walk on stilts
-can laugh at even the worst jokes
-can say "peace be with you" in Arabic

And then I talked to one of the managers, and things went real well, and he said that he just had to talk to the owner, and that they would give me a call in a couple of days. And whoo-hoo! I have my fingers crossed so much, because I would love to work there more than any place in the world right now. Even you, you stupid Sarasota New's and Books, which will never hire me, no matter how many good interviews I have with you.

And now, I am about to go check-out and head to Kingstown. I will be checking outAmerican Skin by Don De Grazia, Summer in Baden-Baden by Loenid Tsypkin, and the following DVD's: Midnight Cowboy, Chinatown, and The Big Sleep. I'm not too excited about either of the books, but I have the hardest time finding books that I like. There is a certain type of book that I love, and if anyone has any good recommendations, you should let me know, because I will most likely be back at this library tomorrow. I like books that don't have lots of plot; that don't try to be hip and never ever have "postmodern" written anywhere on the back cover; that deal with notions of America; that are optimistic; that are somewhat sexual; that try to be really transcendant; and funky, if possible. Just good writing, basically. Why do all of these books I pick up and open to read a couple of sentances from have the most god-awful prose - trying to sound meaningful by writing in an ornate manner, but come off as gaudy and silly? I don't have time for examples, right now. I am a boy on the move. But, tomorrow, if I am here, expect a few samples.

one more time

"one more time - i got to cell-la-brate." and i think a year after it came out and i heard gina crash making fun of it on whfs' transmissions, i actually am not only liking and appreciating new daft punk, but fucking loving it. i really wish i had the album to listen to right now.

if anyone wants to be my boyfriend and has a copy that they want to burn for me, i would love you forever and ever. other things that will make you my boyfriend, or if you're not interested in all that commitment, i will "reward" you with sex:

-if you know someone that works at blockbuster, or even better, if you work at blockbuster, i will mail you my blockbuster card and you can erase the $12.20 fine that i owe.
-the same for someone employed by the fairfax county public library system you can erase my way more than $12.20 fines that i have racked up there.
-okay, those are the only two i can think of. but actually, i don't know what the fuck i am talking about since really i will be your boyfriend even if you don't do any of the above things, i am Lonely right now and very much just wanting a person to ameliorate my feelings of loneliness. whoo for "ameliorate" - in high school, some silly SAT prep company sent me two sample flash cards of their set, and one of the flashcards was "Amelia Earhart ameliorated the status of women in avaition." And, to this day, i remember that card and as a result remember the word "ameliorate."

i wish someone would also ameliorate my employment status. (okay, perhaps that is not the best usage.) today, i am without a job. one more time. celebrate. i am a big fat lazy slob. one more time. without a job. a lazy fuck. come on and celebrate. will have to hit the streets one more time and go jobhunting. all right, come on and celebrate. music's got me feeling so free, but then the song ends and economic chains reappear. come on and celebrate. got to work to gets paid. one more time.

today i didn't feel like going to work in the morning so i didn't go, and worse yet, did not bother to call. slept in. masturbated twice. watched julien donkey-boy, which i hated for way too many reasons. thought about paying to see a fat man at the minnesota state fair when i was a kid, and that this was way too similar an experience - just as horrible and exploitive - except worse - because it had artisitic pretensions up the wazoo. the fat man was better in so many ways, and there was a cheese curds stand near there. mmm, cheese curds - i wonder if i can find those in wisconsin somewhere.

went and played at mary's tonight. got drunk off of stolen wine, played trivial, read the citypaper, danced around to music videos, and watched real sex.

tomorrow, i have an interview at one at some "market research firm" aka telemarketing without balls. one more time. come on and celebrate.

it was blue and i think it was a toyota - he had blonde hair

drinking valerian tea with the hope that it knocks me out soon soon soon so that i can sleep sleep sleep so that i can wake up at six to work work work.

my body looks like i have been attacked by a vicious cat. scratches everywhere. redness. little bumps. i rolled down a big hill with mary last night and have been itching horribly ever since. god, i hope this is not poision ivy. god, i am glad i wore my underwear, cause otherwise this could be worse. much worse.

saw amelie again tonight with sarah and it is still the cutest movie ever. made me want a boy even more than i already did this afternoon. which by the way, was a fucking lot, thanks to the fours hours of queer as folk i watched, checked out from hollywood video, where i also rented julien donkey-boy and managed to steal a dvd of mulholland drive, cause the shit cost forty bucks. but anyways, watched so much gay tv today, which made me sigh, "aww" a lot and "that's soooo cute," saying it at all of the romantic parts and boy oh boy i want a boy to wrap my arms around.

oww, i just took like a five minute scratching break, and i am in such pain. this is definitly poision ivy. or that grass had a scary amount of lawn chemicals on it that is now slowly eating away at my skin. by morning, i will have bled to death in my sleep. this will be so embarassing if this is poision ivy and i have to answer my mom's questions about how i got poision ivy on my stomach.

so yeah - amelie rocked. i was boy crazy. and afterwards, me and sarah stalked a car with a gay boy in it that i thought was real cute. the passenger of the car noticed that we were staring into the car and following them and hung out of the car to talk to us. me and sarah chickened out and drove past them only to slow down and stare some more. and then they went down a different road then us. and yes, i am still without a boy, but still boy crazy, and maybe tomorrow at work, some dashing lad will come wisk me away from my increasingly banal life, and goddamn - i have to go to bed and see if i can find anything to stop this itching. and apoligies to the few of you readers - i am itching like crazy and am not too concerned with writing well.

hookey

here's how it happened:

i woke up at six. went downstairs and ate some breakfast (puffed corn cereal with milk). i then took a shower. the most heavenly of showers. tense muscles eased and eased by scolding hot water. i entered the shower sometime around 6:15, spent so so long under that hot shower head, daydreaming of how nice a hot tub or sauna would be right then. and, no, don't do it charlie, you do not enough time to take a bath. oh, but it would feel good. just let your back and scalp be massaged by this hot water a little longer.

half an hour later at a little after 6:45, adorned in a towel, i went back to my room, closed the door, took off my towel and laid it out over my sheets so that i could lay down on my bed without getting it all wet and gross. my muscles felt so good, neurons were firing to all the right places, and i felt damn good, and did not feel like walking out the door at seven to go to Work. uh, who the fuck wants to work today? why work when you can just lay around naked and half-sleep and be the most content just powdered baby in the world.

i practiced out loud a couple of times, holding my nose, trying to sound as sick as possible, and then i called. and of course, john has to pick up. john hates me so much and thinks i am Grade A incompetent. holding my nose, i said, "this is charlie," when he answered the phone. who, he said? and about three more times, holding my nose, getting mad at his stupidity and almost laughing through my nose at the silliness, i made my name understandable to him. "yeah?," he says, in a not very nice way, perhaps anticipating what i was about to say. i told him that i was real sick and that i had already thrown up this morning, and that i had an appointment to see the doctor at 11:30, perhaps the worst attempt at lying i have ever done. "so, you're saying you're not coming in?" and i said, yeah, that i am real sick and really can't. his voice was full of disdain that doubted the credibility of my story. he then aggresivily said, "it's only seven o'clock, how could you have already made a doctor's appointment? what doctor is open at seven?" and i held my nose tighter and tried to sound real sick, and said that i had kaiser, and they had a 24 hour appointment line. and he was like, "i have 250 boxes here that need to be unpacked an i only have two people working." again, i repeated the fact that i was sick, and he said, "okay, whatever," and hung up. and yes!!!! i did it! whoo!!!

i climbed back into my bed and slept until noonish and ate another breakfast and am now about to go take another really long shower.

just say no to yes. whoo!! today is a day for dancing in my room, listening to bruce, filling out that wisconsin application, and finding someone to go drink lots of coffee with me.

written to the the sound of Maxwell's Unplugged album, with an awesome cover of NIN's "Closer"

at work they changed my schedule so that i now for the most part work the 8-4 shift, meaning i have to wake up at six.

today, after work and after walking around dc enjoying the weather, i got on the metro to go home and fell big time asleep even though the metro was packed to the brims. luckily, i somehow got a seat, cause otherwise i would have passed out. all i remember is an old woman talking to me to confirm that she was on the yellow line, she started reading her mary higgens clark paperback and then at the end of the line at huntington, with the train pretty much empty, some kind woman nudged me to let me know that we were at the end of the line. the sleep was a delirious haze of obliviousness to the facts, the reality, the world - to the lack of sheets. waken up by mommy. time for school. and just a little more sleep. please.

and she said, "end of the line." what a scary thing to be woken up to. some boys like grim reaper tattoos. these boys, from my own encounters with them, have tended to have long hair. but, the correlation could just be coincidence.

anyways, it is time to go rest up for more skirmishes between the world of sleep and awake that promise to transpire in a short seven hours, when i have to wake up for work.

The heat of Bruce's fire is no Hell. No, if anything, it is Heaven.

My vision of hell is an inverse of the cartoon Hell. Some people like to use the phrase “hot as hell.” And I can recall a couple of Looney Tune cartoons in which Hell is depicted as a place full of flames and a little red devil. And didn’t Dante write something about it as an “inferno”? But, all of these are fucking bullshit. And if it is not, then goddamnit, Hell does not sound that bad to me.

When I was in Florida, I liked to romanticize Virginia winters, and the joy of seasons, and how great it felt to cuddle up in coats and scarves, to be able to see your breath in the frosty air, and to have red, blistered cheeks. But, fucking hell - enough is enough already. It is early April now and in the upper thirties! Cold as fucking balls. My vision of hell is freezing – a desolate, icy cold desert land. The cold is just so painful, and in a way that heat can never be. When it is insanely cold, you never get a hazy mind or faint – you are painfully, painfully aware of the cold. Your body becomes numb, fingers could fall off if you just accidentally hit them against a hard object like a telephone pole or a fucking laundry machine. Maybe even a chair. Fingers drained of blood and brittle and white and goddamn it hurts.

Death always seems just right over the next hill. Two more lights away. And a right at the Texaco. And there it is. So close when it is cold outside. (I’m pretty sure this is why all of those New England writers were so dark.) But with heat you just sort of meld into the heat waves and become one and the same with the fractures of light that steam over asphalt surfaces. With coldness, your mind does not become dopey or tired. You are Awake and aware of every single pore of your skin that is exposed to the wind. In the heat, we are completetly unaware of how are skin is not the air. In the heat, we absorbe those UV rays with love – a high. And, yeah, you’re right – it is something about the heat.

Today, thanks to this modern world we reside in, I connected with the Sunshine State, and I think caught some of the sun’s energy through the telephone lines. Dialed 1 followed by a 941 interrupted by a brief pause as I thought for a brief second about the $64,000 question that I find myself asking way too often – the story of my fucking life and a question that was posed mainly about who I was calling, but which really was a brief, existential dilemma – and anyways, I uttered what the fuck am I doing?, and then quickly remembered and dialed 359 with a brief pause because I always dial numbers like they are said - the first three numbers all together with a slight hesitation and then the final four numbers – and then the denouement: 3297.

And I asked Anne, who picked up the phone, if Bonnie was there and she wasn’t. I can pick up the phone a thousand some miles away from you and talk to you in real time and you are at the other end of this line and living in that Stevens House, and living your Sarasota life, and that is fucking awesome. So, I talked to Anne for about ten minutes before she had to leave for work and it was wonderful being able to talk to Anne in the living room. I was sitting on that couch, which was at one point in time, a white couch, sun filtering in through those curtains that we stole and dyed blue, living the lazy life to the max, and she was being the busy bee, getting ready for work, looking silly in her waitress uniform like she was playing dress up, and she was telling me about her life, and it was so comforting. I wanted to just go through the New College student directory and call up random people and Connect. MCI, Sprint, and VoiceStream – for the love of God, this is not a promo for you guys. I just really think telephones are so magical, connecting me to you and you to me, despite geographic distances. And Walt, would you cringe to know that I am using your “connecting me to you and you to me” shtick to talk about an appliance? We are evolved. Earth, we will surpass all your natural limitations. We are aliens, this human race of ours. And look at what I just said – “of ours.” It is ours. Yours and Mine. And that’s so capitalist to use possessive pronouns. But, whatever, we can do that. Remember, we are aliens. Cosmic beauties hurling through space, we have lost contact with Mission Control, and have long forgotten what our mission exactly was. It’s that damn lost memory disease our species has. Where exactly did I put those keys? What exactly are we doing on this planet?

Perhaps a better question is: Who cares? Perhaps that is the best one. And turn up that radio when you’re feeling lonesome and not feeling like engaging in conversation with whoever it is that keeps asking these questions. Fucking crank it, I say. Louder. Louder. Louder. Happiness through sensory exhaustion.

I’ve got a tape player in my mom’s minivan (my current mode of transportation), and it is getting so much Brucie Bruce action these past few days. Springsteen’s cock has been inserted in the always receptive tape deck since whenever the fuck I put it in a few days ago. I now know every word to Born in the USA, and Bruce’s kisses have been turning me inside out for days, for lifetimes, and do his kisses turn you inside out, too? I drove Maggie home from work last night and she was excited by Bruce, and we talked about Bruce and what we loved about him, and she knew most of the words. Last night, I saw Kissing Jessica Steinwith Sarah, and she too loved Bruce on the drive there. And today, I drove around with Mary because that’s what we like to do, and listened to Bruce, and Mary loves him, too. We all love him. I love that – when so many people love a singer and I can share a listening moment with them. Sharing is caring indeed.

Mary, Bruce, and I drove around Northern Virginia this afternoon and repeated I’m on fire, saying perhaps the most sincere thing we would allow ourselves to say all week. We sang it with meaning, almost trembling in our recitation. A low lament. Not a yell. Not at all.

We went to this hookah bar out in Falls Church that I went to once in high school with some girl from PIRG. It was an Egyptian cafe and in this shopping center where most of the stores had Arabic signs out front. We went in, sort of nervous, and were received to somewhat less than welcoming stares. Mary, the blonde, slutty looking white girl and me, the flaming (say some) gay boy were just a little out of place. But, after about the first ten minutes of feeling very stiff and out of place, and after smoking like dragons from fruit-flavored hookahs, we were in a much more convivial mood and realized that the unwelcoming stares were largely invented by our own slight nervousness, and the waiter was friendly and we sat for way too long, and tried to do to far too many smoking tricks. Neither of us could get down doing doughnets. And, then me feeling so lightheaded since I never ever ever smoke - we sat some more until I felt more clearheaded. And then we left the restaurant, joined up with Bruce, and watched the beautiful, beautiful star known as The Sun make its way closer and closer to the horizion, and darken gradually from a shade of yellow to a shade of orange to a shade of gold to a shade of red to dusk.

And last night I had the best sex of my life. And, I almost followed that by saying: Too bad it was just a dream. But, it wasn’t too bad it was just a dream. It was a fucking wonderful experience. It was this real weird dream, the setting was New College, and the boy was Chris Hollerhan, who was one of my obsessions, but who I haven’t even thought of in forever. Dreams are so weird and fascinating and great. And this morning, after waking up, I masturbated on my bedroom floor, taking pleasure in tensing up all my “muscles” as much as I could. Straining my legs and stomach. And it felt so good. And right after I came to half recollections of my dream, I curled up the toes of my right foot and rubbed them against the still tensed ankle of the back of my left foot.

And an hour will be lost tonight. Daylight Savings Time or some bullshit silliness. And what are we not advanced enough to not have to change clocks and shit? We can talk to people on the other side of the globe in real time, yet we’re still acting like druids with all this stonehedge clock business.

where is connecticut?

wow, jasmine has been talking about her banner in her diary and now i see her banner above the box that i am typing into and i think that that is so funny. little jamsime's diary is being advertised on the big ol' diaryland.

i got an application to live in this house in madison over the summer at least a week ago, with a note saying please return asap, and i have still yet to even start filling it out. i keep getting distracted. tomorrow morning i will do it. i will.

right now i am capital t tired. i went to mary's this afternoon at about seven and we decided to go see a comedy show at the improv on conneticut ave. that started at 8:30. drove around dc, searching frantically for conneticut, getting stuck in traffic circles, and just feeling lost and impotent. at nine, we decided that it would be too late to get into the show anyways, and tried thinking of another idea. somehow ended up back in va. dc roads didn't like us and spat us onto 395. turned around in shirlington, headed back to dc, and i suggested bowling. i really wanted to go to this new bowling alley, strike, in besthesda, md. more lostness. more tiredness. more carsickness. passed it big time. backtracked big time. spot it. run in so relieved. and godfuckingdamn it all to hell are you fucking kidding me? why do we have to be 21 to bowl? this is bullshit.

not even allowed into the bowling alley by the bouncer, mary looked like she was going to strangle me since she had to pee for the last two hours and now we were back in the car. she screamed and pulled her hair and i did too. and yes we got lost some more, and were thinking of going to wet to see naked boys cavort on stage but were too fed up with dc roads and decided to head back to good ol' va, but not before circling this one block a couple of times to stare in fascination at some really hot prostitutes who were standing on the side of the road.

back at mary's apartment, ty was watching softcore on hbo. dude, they have digital cable with 400 stations, and all these music video stations, that play GOOD music. bon jovi. heart. guns n roses. and paul simon's "me and julio down by the schoolyard." who even knew that that had a music video?

ty and mary are cartoon characters. they're so vain and insane and not even joking about acting like divas. and ty modeled his new prada shirt that he bought today, and kept asking if he looked good. he then asked me if i would be his boyfriend. but he's ty and wasn't serious even though he acted like he was. and i said sure. and he, (being vain remember) asked me if i thought he was attractive. i said sure again. and somehow this led to us wrestling and grabbing each others cocks and yelling real loud and sticking fingers up each other's asses. and mary was screaming, ty don't rape charlie. and me and ty were screaming and throwing each other around letting out our sexual aggression, both of us sexually aroused, but it was all okay because we were just joking and wrestling. and then mary called her boyfriend and the doorbell rang and rang. and i peeped through the peephole and some scary truck-driver type of dude was outside the door and we ran up the stairs and hid. and it rang again and again. and i ran and peeked again. and then me and ty ran upstairs to hide in his room. and i predicted something bad happening - something sexual between me and ty and no, no, no - that will never happen - so i ran downstairs to peep again, and yes the scary guy who was probably complaining about our noise was still standing outside the door.

and ty and mary then smoked and i lied around on their living room floor, which is still completely furintureless and marveled at modern technology that allows rod sterwart videos from the seventies to come into peoples living rooms for their viewing pleasure. and then tired and hungry and getting bored with mary and ty's conversation about some dance competition that ty and mary's boyfriend john are in this weekend, and which i am being forced to go to by mary as punishment for the four hours i made her suffer in the car today, i decided to leave the madness and head home.

and when i left their apartment, i saw a ticket under my windshield wiper cause i parked right in front, which i guess is a fire lane, but it was late at night and i was only there for an hour or so, and goddamn i hate traffic cops. a $48 dollar fucking ticket!!! $48 fucking dollars!!! shit, i don't want to pay that. am considering appealing it, but you don't even get to go to court in the city of alexandria, you just go to the parking office and appeal to some adjucator whenever you want in the next 30 days. and goddamn, how am i going to get off parking in a fire lane to some adjucator? fucking shit.

line breaks are for bad writers and self-described poets. oh wait - those two are the same thing.

since january i have been wearing glasses - that is up until about a week ago when i finally got my contact prescription refilled and now feel like a normal non-glasses wearing person. like a different person. glasses create such a persona. so many people at work have commented on the absence of my glasses and i tell them that normally i don't wear them. four eyes to two - winter to spring - green buds and blossoms on trees - also erections in jeans. and is your pussy wet this time of year? the life force is returning - trees are jizzing up little green buds of early spring life and things are looking wonderful. and can you tell that i'm really into henry miller right now?

what's your name,
boy?
boy.
i mean

man.
don't i?
glasses with a cool blue tint around the lining
i hope you didn't think i was trying to look into your eyes

actually i don't care if you do
cause i was
-but the glasses were cool too.
you are thirty plus but such a fascinating seeming man
you asked me about a burt's bees ad
and i did my best to respond trying to sound intelligent
think think think
said some thing (possibly things) about marketing class and yuppies

and you didn't seem that impressed

you had a blockbuster video and i kept peeking to see
what video it was
and then i got a glimpse and saw:
queer as folk season 1

pit a patter a tad bit faster

and i got so nervous
and shook - goddman did i shake
like nothing else
my hands trembled as i handed you your change and i don't know why
i get so intimidated around people i find dreamy

but yeah

b83 or b84 - i can't remember right now

yesterday, i was in a morbid mood, acting like all good brooding 16 year olds of the world are supposed to, fearing the big d.

today, i say: brooding is for suckers! today, i am happy and happy.

quote that i read last night in tropic of cancer that i loved, but of course there was no pen to be found in the immediate vicinity (arms's reach) of my bed. but the quote really changed my mood when i read it, and is the root of this mood that i am feeling right now: "above all, never despair. il ne faut jamais despeserer."

i went to the doctor this morning to get some blood tests and i felt so alive on the way there - present tense living.

that is what being able to wear a t-shirt will do to you. feeling wind and cool grace over my skin.

i popped in chris isaak's "heart shaped world" tape, which i snagged from goodwill when i went there with mary.

it was the first time i listened to it. NEW music is always great. sometimes all the soul needs is a little R n' R. and no, not rest and relaxation. i'm talking about the rock and fucking roll variety - the kind of music that soothes the soul. right, bob seger?

maybe i'm so depressed at work because of Muzak easy listening songs which i know about all of the words to - songs which no one should know the words to

tedium of routine also - spririt numbing

Fresh AIR is also part of reason. same small store everyday.

tapes are wonderfully circular. you get to the end and you are right back at the beginning

giving blood felt great - it takes a cut to make you feel alive - blood into vial - my blood - it felt good - and is this the fetishization of death and near death that people critique popular culture for?

let's go terrapins, let's go, whoo whoo

death is feared not in the pauses and lonely moments but when the store is crowded with people, strollers, and movement. they are animals. and alas, i must be too. the exciting varieties of potato chips will not be eaten by us, but by people i do not even know with strong hearts and even stronger dicks. and goddamn, i want to eat chips forever.

jamie was home for so short a time - i saw her for a couple hours last night before she went to bed and then vamoosh, i wish she could have stayed longer. i had to work yesterday and today and she left this afternoon while i was at work, grinding my teeth, making a shit list of all the customers who were evil enough to support a business open on easter, making it profitable for mister gary cha to force me to come to work, and to not be able to hang out with my sister.

solidarity. workers are supposed to unite you stupid bourgeois motherfuckers.

a customer who i thought was hitting on me before made it obvious today. when we were done talking/ringing up his groceries, he asked me what my name was. i told him. he then said, "matthew," assuming that i also wanted to know what his name was. he winked at me as he was walking out the door. but i didn't want to know matthew's name. i didn't want to tell him mine.

and if we (you and i - not me and matthew, dear god no!) saw each other often, would you sleep with me? i think that may be all i really want. classic rock love songs on the way home from work, for some reason sounding not cheesy at all. but lovely lovely lovely. and the rest is up to you. you - you stupid motherfucker.