2001-11-11 || 3:16 p.m.

|| sundays are lost causes. ||

i keep writing shite on this page and i apologize. the novel is sucking the words outta me, or so i thought, and then today i came to the frightening realization that the novel has become full of shite as well. it's like when you have a very bad head cold and marvel at all the snot your body is making. where does it all come from? shite shite snot shite. there has to be something healthy and constructive in there, somewheres.

i am at home. i spent the night at a secret location and now i am home and meow meow has taken her customary place on my lap, hind claws diggin into my legs and ruining my lucky wranglers, two messages on my voice mail (b taunting me with her story of bike riding in the rain to the alley last night and dad asking how i'm doing) and the windows are open and curtains thrown and the berkeley hills appear more crowded than usual, what with the rain clouds pushing down on them and all. there is no food in this apartment. there is nothing to drink except for sierra nevada and at the moment i am very tired of bloody sierra nevada. existing on sierra nevada alone cannot be a good thing.

the apartment across the hall from me is vacant. when i came home the door was open and i noticed it is an exact replica of mine except flip-flopped. and the sun is shining in that apartment where as (is it whereas? consulting the beloved websters' unabridged. one moment, please. page 2164. mmm. whereas.) whereas mine is cloudy and rainy. i want someone nice to move into that apartment. i want a cohort in close quarters so we can take turns cooking dinner and rush from my apartment to theirs, following the path of the sun. mine: berkeley hills and the A of the albany theater sign and eucalyptus trees. theirs: the haunted hill and tops of houses and if you stand on your tip toes, the bay and point richmond. i am so aching for a jack tripper to my janet. a phyllis to my mary. a monroe to my ted knight (oh my goodness. five hundred points to me for making mention of jm j bullock in a diaryland entry, wheee.). i want to trade records across the hallway and borrow sassy spices i will promptly spill all over the stove and open the door and yell for someone to help if something goes terribly awry while dying my hair. come on. you need a change, right? move into apartment 19 and we'll be the best of friends. you could borrow the webster's unabridged whenever you want.

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