I sit here at my desk, ragged and grizzly. I never got that haircut, and it's looking sentient now. My complexion is spotty and my eyes are swollen pink. I had trouble sleeping last night.

My holiday season was quite a coccoon. I didn't exactly emerge a beautiful butterfly, but I definitely exited as somebody much different than I was in November. Some telltale threads are woven into this journal, some not. I'll spare you.

Instead, some colorful anecdotes.

The roomie called last Tuesday to tell me to pick up Steve for Mark & Linda's New Year's Eve Party. (yes, he made it sound important enough to warrant capital letters) When I got there with him, I learned that Linda had a hissyfit and refused to have him as a guest. This stems back to when Steve's apartment got broken into, theived, and vandalized. Linda had been witness the next day when Steve had muttered and evenutally shouted, for several hours straight, "Kill. I'm gonna kill him. Knife, gun, bat, whatever's there. Can I use your phone?"

So I called Jim and Kelly, friends of mine for many years. I see them every New Year's Eve, and sometimes only then. Unfortunately they were going to Doug's house. The last time I went there, mid-summer, I had brought Steve, and he got drunk and tried to take two of the women to Chicago for cocaine and sex. Most everybody got upset by that and a fight nearly broke out. Doug kicked us out and I accidentally took his mom's Tommy James & The Shondells greatest hits CD. (I'd been carrying it upstairs when I had to run outside to the conflict, and I got kicked off the property while dragging Steve towards the curb) That eventually led to the heroin story. On my first page, I think.

Since he'd worn out his welcome everywhere, I told him to find his own goddamn party. He ended up in Plainfield with a bunch of South African girls who kept asking him and his buddies if they know who Nelson Mandela is. That reminded me of the Specials' "Free Nelson Mandela," a joyous political song that makes me beam.

I went to Doug's anyways, and he made me feel very unwelcome. He didn't look upon my efforts to defuse the summer situation favorably, and instead opted for guilt by association. Everybody gave him a very hard time about it except for me. Instead of speaking his mind, Doug's rationale was that he hadn't approved me as a New Year's guest with his mother. Doug is 26 years old. Yeah, he got grief from all but me on that flimsy weak shit. I left gracefully and went to stay with Darren and Leslie. The three of us ate cookies and drank cheap beer until two am. Low key.

The final week of the year brought news of three pregnancies and one murder. I guess that's good math, supposing such things can be reduced.

My friend Laura had her 21st birthday party at an arcade/bar. She got completely sloshed and was smart enough to bring two cameras. I saw to it that both were filled. Many images of her flirting with strangers, hugging her friends, and some long distance Where's Waldo? stlye shots with her on balconies, tall staircases and exiting washrooms. I have a good eye for compostition. Actually I haven't seen them yet. I thought so while I was buzzing, so it must be true.

I also decided to go to Florida in February. I will drink rum on the beach in Fort Lauderdale and collapse on the sand. Eat seafood. Cuban. Sleep late. Piss in the gulf or the ocean, depending on where the city lies. That sort of thing.

I've been spending a lot of time alone in the apartment. I have nowhere to go, nobody to see, and I like it. I've been begging myself to spend some quality time free of obligations. Lazy. It's somewhat boring, to tell the truth. But I got what I wanted. Old GrandDad bonded bourbon, a leather couch, cheap movies, blankets, cigarettes. Even after no sleep last night I feel more awake that I usually do on Monday morning. I must've gotten something right.

I recall that a few people have observed that writers on this site are depressive and gloomy. I don't think that's true. People vent some negative baggage here because it's safe and anonymous, but that doesn't make us gothic as a whole. And if you think about it, the dark stuff is more entertaining than the happy stuff. You can go on for hours exploring problems like little ant caves, all knot twisted. Happiness is far less intellectual, and to question it is to threaten it. I couldn't write much more than a paragraph about it without making myself ill. What would I say? I am overcome with an abundance of mirth, and the light twinkles all about, and the air is clean and perfect, and the music marionettes me a merry jig, and I am a great blazing sun, and I radiate my light wherever I pass, and if I smile any wider my cheeks will crack!

No thanks. Leave that to musical types and ecstasy abusers.
11:36 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm