Okay, back
Wretched attempt at fitness. 600-some-odd calories and not quite two-and-a-half miles. Fucking pathetic. I should have my legs taken from me for lack of interest, although I've got that big thigh muscle kicking (what's the name of that one that goes along the outside front?), and that's always cool.
Now, if only there was something to be done about the ass.
Been reading Thomas Friedman's Longitudes and Attitudes and I'm not sure if I should be impressed with his insights into the Muslim world and the underlying cultural differences that so completely divide the Middle East and the West, or if I should despise him for the smug way he points out just how well he can see them and how everybody should just listen to him. Dunno. Lemme finish it and I'll have a better idea. Kid's got a champion 'stache, if nothing else. Check the link.
Just woolgathering tonight, I think. I've got some homework that I'm not doing and some cleaning that I'm purposely ignoring and this is, I think, all that's going to pass for writing tonight. It's the fucking job, I'm starting to think. It's about as unstimulating as a job can be, really. Getting lost on Long Island was the most engaging part of my day, and all that really did was show me that five out of six gas stations in Garden City DON'T CARRY FUCKING MAPS. Explain that to me, if you can. Do these jackasses not realize that there are essentials that every gas station needs to have beyond a rack of Frito-Lay and a cooler full of Pepsi? And, of course, the one gas station that DID carry maps was on the corner of the street I was looking for. Bought a map anyway, a street index for Nassau County. No way I'm getting lost out there again. Those fucking roads are a nightmare and everyone drives a goddamned SUV. I feel like I'm staring at axles instead of back windows when I'm stuck in a line of traffic in front of yet another mall.
Oh cool. Junkyard Wars is on. Racecars tonight. Warren would be so angry, with me here watching tv instead of jacking the stereo and popping pills and writing about goth bisex fucking and mutilated bodies, but, well, fuck him. All that's in the CD player right now is the Buzzcocks and the latest Deacons mix and I'm too fucking sore to go hunt down something better to put in there. Besides, Me and Rich and the rest of the kids screaming out the beginning of 'Brooklyntown' wakes me right the fuck up in the mornings, and I can't be certain that anything else would do that.
Man, I could so very much smoke many cigarettes right now. I still can't believe I was silly enough to quit. Writing without smoking is like...
Shit. It's just wrong, is all.
Out. Maybe I'll catch up later.
Wretched attempt at fitness. 600-some-odd calories and not quite two-and-a-half miles. Fucking pathetic. I should have my legs taken from me for lack of interest, although I've got that big thigh muscle kicking (what's the name of that one that goes along the outside front?), and that's always cool.
Now, if only there was something to be done about the ass.
Been reading Thomas Friedman's Longitudes and Attitudes and I'm not sure if I should be impressed with his insights into the Muslim world and the underlying cultural differences that so completely divide the Middle East and the West, or if I should despise him for the smug way he points out just how well he can see them and how everybody should just listen to him. Dunno. Lemme finish it and I'll have a better idea. Kid's got a champion 'stache, if nothing else. Check the link.
Just woolgathering tonight, I think. I've got some homework that I'm not doing and some cleaning that I'm purposely ignoring and this is, I think, all that's going to pass for writing tonight. It's the fucking job, I'm starting to think. It's about as unstimulating as a job can be, really. Getting lost on Long Island was the most engaging part of my day, and all that really did was show me that five out of six gas stations in Garden City DON'T CARRY FUCKING MAPS. Explain that to me, if you can. Do these jackasses not realize that there are essentials that every gas station needs to have beyond a rack of Frito-Lay and a cooler full of Pepsi? And, of course, the one gas station that DID carry maps was on the corner of the street I was looking for. Bought a map anyway, a street index for Nassau County. No way I'm getting lost out there again. Those fucking roads are a nightmare and everyone drives a goddamned SUV. I feel like I'm staring at axles instead of back windows when I'm stuck in a line of traffic in front of yet another mall.
Oh cool. Junkyard Wars is on. Racecars tonight. Warren would be so angry, with me here watching tv instead of jacking the stereo and popping pills and writing about goth bisex fucking and mutilated bodies, but, well, fuck him. All that's in the CD player right now is the Buzzcocks and the latest Deacons mix and I'm too fucking sore to go hunt down something better to put in there. Besides, Me and Rich and the rest of the kids screaming out the beginning of 'Brooklyntown' wakes me right the fuck up in the mornings, and I can't be certain that anything else would do that.
Man, I could so very much smoke many cigarettes right now. I still can't believe I was silly enough to quit. Writing without smoking is like...
Shit. It's just wrong, is all.
Out. Maybe I'll catch up later.
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