Have we ever discussed the fact that most of my favorite books are stolen? Stolen from schools and.. well, schools. Books out on loan and never returned. One could say that I am still borrowing them, that I simply have not yet returned them. One has, in fact, used this argument (in a fictional conversation with Oneself, mind you) but that argument is based upon the intention and willingness to still return them... which I do not think is present.

Today I shall take a book from these shelves to read, while I am still reading Transmetropolitan I feel I need something more substantial in my hands than single issues of a comic, a comic which runs for some 60 issues total and I, having reached a pivotal point in the story, seem to be missing a few. So John has them downloaded and some program for me for which to look at them.. blah blah, la la. Later.

In addition I should be reading perhaps that book that Kevin got me about writing, and I can't say I won't, I just don't feel like it today

Instead I will pick up--and I looked at The Crying Of Lot 49, which I think I read in 2008? Maybe again last year (borrowed from one JB Lee)--but likely I will read a book (flat out stolen from the college bookstore I worked at in the last months of '01) entitled Every Day Gets A Little Closer, written by some doctor person and some crazy girl. At the time it reflected my personal experiences so greatly that I thought it to be some magical artifact placed in my path.

Haven't read it since and lately, with dealing with my Crazy on the forefront of all I am doing, I feel like picking it up.

NOW THAT that has been decided there are more important matters to discuss such as the LACK OF COFFEE IN THIS HOUSEHOLD. Now. There are many tiny cartons of chocolate milk, there are the juices of pressed apples, but none of which have the great glorious effects of coffeeee which I so desire.

I HAVE TWO OPTIONS.

OPTION ONE: walk to the little store, get shitty coffee out of the machine.

OPTION TWO: walk to the cafe, book and notebook and others in hand, to drink fabulous coffee and stay awhile.

OPTION THREE, THE SADDEST OF ALL: get through the day without coffee, not a bad idea since it's already 1pm.

NOW LISTEN HERE, it is 4 degrees out and the little store is closer and I am full of ripping tissues and whatever it is that happens inside my body once a month. I am inclined then, to drink that shitty coffee from that gas station, but Wilde Roast is sooo good, but I hate to walk that far. OH GOD MY LIFE IS SO HARD (get a job you stinker/don't shout at me, I will when I'm ready, or rather upon return from Chicago if that trip ever gets underway, christ)

...

I don't know what I'm going to do. Drink some apple juice and or water in the meantime. Eat some more food so I can take this multitude of pills I am now charged with--PILLS WHICH TURNED OUT TO BE WAY MORE EXPENSIVE THAN I THOUGHT, THANKS

I could talk to you about dreams. The easiest to remember dream was the most recent, and it was a hot one indeed. I have been having more HOT dreams than I normally do. Anyway, it involved Mr Obie, with whom I participated in physical acts of love, also with his girlfriend at the time. hot, and yes it was. Anyway, so they're not together any longer and he was with some other chick in the dream and she was all flirty, hot to trot, what have you, but there was some mix-up so when she arrived after he and I thought she wasn't coming, she was rather upset

but ooh, la la, dreams; you are mine

uh, now, upon my first visit to the toilet this morning I remembered an early dream, perhaps from the first time I was sleeping, I don't remember much of what happened, if anything happened, before I went lucid, but there was this house, with all these things in the house, my family was there, there was a dark sky outside and a shimmering, equally dark ocean, waves lapping at the front patio, we were to be getting on this boat eventually and I was not to be left behind as I had been previously (? as in other dreams it felt) due to running around trying to pick up so many things I didn't need

SO I'm standing in this kitchen and this thing representing my father is there, a tall and bulbous thing that looks stupid and like a scary baby with a mustache and wearing a chef's hat and I try to say his name to him, say it and it comes out mushy and I can't properly form the word

it is at this point I realize I am dreaming so I start spelling his name, forcing the letters into my mouth, over and over again until the letters are clear and I can say his name properly, while I am doing this he is bouncing back and forth between his proper former form and this behemoth of dream symbolism, once I have said his name, he is back to normal and I am excited at what I have accomplished

I start explaining that I know it's a dream and isn't it funny that I'm still here, try to tell my mom and brother about this but then get swept away in some other crisis of dream happenings

this is what I get for reading old diary before bed
but at least I was writing in it, for I still have every intention of filling that goddamn red book up, even though I've been writing in it since the end of 2006 and am only half way, I guess I only pick it up when I need to, but I aim to change that

and make these words stronger, for all of us