10.24.00
Yesterday, I had to pay Computer Guy fifty bucks for his services: looking at my computer for about 5 minutes and then declaring that "it's the hard drive." No shit, Sherlock; that's what I told you on the phone, yo. Looks like my hard drive is f ried like an egg, and my precious mp3 collection is gone. No justice in this world, I'm telling you.

10.23.00
I feel like the rollercoaster inside me keeps climbing, up up up, and there's a drop to come sometime, but there's no reason to think of that now: I'm giddy, so happy, because I just heard from Derek and he's still in Chicago. I have this perfect memory of driving to a farmers' market in Derek's Comet. We entered the parking lot with a wide, smooth left curve, and we picked out cider and pumpkins. I remember the way the air felt, the pull of the engine, my hair feeling hot under the sun. See? Perfect. I'm staying up beyond the fall.

Tonight the computer guy is coming to fix my computer. About damn time, I say. Computer Guy kept complaining about the parking situation in my neighborhood, which is not really my problem. I mean, hello, I'm paying you fitty bucks an hour to fix this. It's not my job to find parking for you, too. And this means that, as long as my files are in good shape, I can finish the redesign.

10.19.2000

The next time I get in an argument with someone, I am going to leave a package at his or her door. Inside will be two CDs: a KISS compilation and one by the Make-Up. Get it? Ha ha ha.

I've written three paragraphs, only to delete them. So in simplest terms: changes happen, but that doesn't mean that those very changes can't change someday.

10.17.2000
Yesterday I had a bite of cake for pre-breakfast (I like to eat all day, so I have about eight meals instead of three). I thought this would be a sweet way to start the morning, but boy, was I ever wrong. From that initial taste, I was obsessed with getting more cake. Initially I planned to hold out for lunch, when we often have cake available. But luck was not smiling down on me, and I had to settle for yogurt instead.

Then I started asking my co-workers if they had any cake lying around. They looked at me as though I were trying to be quirky, but my wild-eyed cake-lust was no laughing matter. I couldn't concentrate on anything; always in the background was that craving for cake.

I consulted Andrew, who can often be found talking about cake. Years ago, when he first told me, "I like cake," I thought he was kidding. Now I understand the cakey frenzy that plagues him. It is no thing to joke about.

Anyway, I tore out of work like a bat out of hell, licking my chops (and elbow) in sweet anticipation for the cake in my refrigerator. It was a nice yellow sheet cake with thick white frosting--the kind of preservative-laden cake brick available only at chain grocers. As soon as I entered my cave of an apartment, I grabbed a plastic fork and pulled out the glorious cake-brick. I ate that sugary devil for at least fifteen minutes. Bliss at last.

After gobbling about an eighth of that fine, fine cake, though, an unexpected and horrible thing happened. I started to feel very ill, like I might want to throw up or die or something, and as the cat was vomiting rosebuds, I didn't really want to join him in some weird cat/owner barf bonding. With considerable effort and groaning, I managed to waddle my ass out of the apartment and join the regular, non-cake-obsessed world. Only now, almost 24 hours later, has my body stopped punishing me for the cake incident. I am never eating cake again, or at least, not until next week.

10.10.2000

Gravity, along with everything else, is weighing me down.

Four years ago, I wrote this funny little thing about how frustrating it is when people get funny about straight edge. I don't align myself with the label these days, mostly to avoid its accompanying jockular, exclusionary, ridiculous strings, but I'm sti ll a teetotaler. I mean, I have my reasons, and they're far more valid to me than a quartet of 17-year-old hardcore kids from Jersey.

Four years later, I still find myself dealing with people who are weird about me not drinking. I've finally grown comfortable with being around people who do drink, but they haven't grown comfortable around me. I feel like a social outcast, and even thoug h I think it's not my problem, I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me feel spectacularly lousy.

New glasses and friends would be nice.