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2003-11-08 || 9:02 p.m. || saturday so sorry. || unproductive weekend blowout was a very good idea at first. glorious inclement weather and a wee hangover and brian home on a weekend-day wrote me up a one-way ticket to absolute slackdom, and i was all too happy to jump on the train, man. item: cooking show pajama jammy jam. item: reading one hundred pages of one hundred years of solitude. item: driving around town with b in search of thrift stores and treasures from the center of creative re-use but losing resolve and letting hunger act as cosmic compass. item: listening with head next to speaker to 'no action' on the my aim is true bonus disc (hallo. have you heard the freakin drumming? holy.). after all this the inactivity guilt/cabin fever crept in and it's 9:14 and i don't wuite want to go out so now i am making a dent in the laundra lava that flows from my closet to all open spots of carpet. i am washing sheets and blankets that have long been contaminated with eh boy. there may be some furniture rearrangement. maybe some solo vodka drinking while i try to come up with a suitable magic trick to somehow house all of these books that have formed precarious pillars around my effing bed. maybe just maybe there can be some writing and MFA application progress, although that gives me hives and fainting spells, and those sorts of things cannot be allowed on a slackerly saturday under any circumstances. kind of pathetic, yes? perhaps i can up the ante with slacker orgy and amphetamines. oh. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |