skinny and tired. quiet, but pensive.

One year ago this week, I was going through a nervous breakdown that was overly trivial and concerned mostly with the fact that I was living in a town where no one I could seem to meet had a taste in music that was worthwhile. I lived in a room with a man built like a brick shit house and our diets were of cheap beer and American Spirits. Mankato was my fourth college transfer in two years. I moved myself and didn't know anyone in particular.
I had found no one in particular to be very interesting after weekend upon weekend of hard alcohol, until Jake and I met shortly after a visit of his to the New Ulm Detoxification Center. He had been found in a bush outside of the civic center on a Friday and we had no word from Jake until Monday morning when he called looking for a discreet ride back to Mankato. The following weekend, he owed the city of Mankato some $400 and was in no mood to spend the weekend inebriated, so we hopped in the car and drove all night to Duluth for no apparent reason. On the road, we argued over our cd collections and traded war stories from living on the outskirts of Minneapolis. We at venison jerky, calling it rations and sipped Fresca from cans and threw the empties in the back of my car. For the first time in a few years, I was happy. At least I like to remember that I was.
When we got to Duluth, the crest of the waves were too high to stand on the Superior rocks, the wind was angry and despondent, and everywhere we tried to stand outside of the car we were ankles deep in water and rust colored leaves. The only thing we could find the gumption to do was find the nearest Perkins for breakfast at 3am, considering that the entire week we were both in a place where eating seemed strange. We were skinny and tired. Quiet, but pensive.

*

I live with Jake now in a house a couple hundred years old. And as of yesterday, I found an iPod in our living room and I've been enjoying it since.

"I get the feeling / that today / doesn't like me." -j. samson

Norton was supposed to visit this weekend. Everything was looking up. I had to call him and tell him that we have to do it another one after I told him two days ago that the gallant could reunite.

I'm in-between jobs. One won't let me quit and the other wants me to start today. I'm being promoted without previous experience.

My credibility as an Assistant Manager: 0
My fear that someone will find me out: 0

The N above gave me advice once that no matter what situation I'm being catapulted into, I need to walk into it with my feet on the ground and an overwhelming sense of blind confidence. Let's hope it pans out.

*

I guess the sun's come finally out, while I'm committed to far too much today. I was pensive about my schedule in the latter part of August, now I just hate it. I haven't been able to eat as well as I would. I haven't been able to exercise, and today I'd just like to shit. Fuck you, Wednesday.

Frattoos and Okkervil River

Clincher: title track

This week has been trying. To breathe larger breaths and stretch my skin tighter. I made a new lie today and it proved to be productive enough--to claim the influenza virus and the third lecture of the day. What I should've done was nap but, reluctantly, I caught up on reading.

Clincher: love to a monster

I've had a guest sleeping over since Sunday, from national headquarters whom I couldn't wait to leave even before he got here and surmise. However, Hartman from Missouri has been a positive reinforcement to my days and he leaves tomorrow, though I wish he'd stay and avoid the next five chapters he has to live out of his suitcase with. Instead I'll settle for spears over a 4x4 foot hole in the ice of February.

The Hartman has provided me with new dictions pertaining to the sights I see each morning when Pete stumbles from his room to the bathroom in a towel and remarks to howl at any given moment. Singular: Frattoo; Plural: Frattoos. Response: Frattastic.

Clincher: (shannon wilsey on the) starry stars

Gray Spit

I think when nicotine tastes like pepper, it's a sign that you've come a long way--to some degree. Running in place doesn't magically get easier. On your lungs. But I guess that just takes a little longer.

I imagine it French

Happy Labor Day weekend. Though, Labor Day is never nearly as good as Flag Day.

I awoke this morning to the sight of many men on the couches and chairs asleep, and typically, I'd turn up the jukebox as loud as it would go and play the Happy Birthday 45 that's on it. But, today I didn't mind. I didn't mind the pizza boxes spread out on the table and the counter by the bar. I let them sleep and didn't try to clean up after them. Today might be a good day.

I hate this time of year because I always find myself walking into the school year with my eyes rolled into the back of my head, and then the switch gets flipped. I begin to appreciate the deadlines and the sociological readings of "How to Become a Marijuana User"and the "Talk Dirty to Me." The best part is again producing worthwhile prose. The feeling reciprocates--I love this season for the reason that I can drink Green Tea with a dash of honey and not sweat from it as the weather isn't that warm anymore. It means I can go through that stage where I replace all of my lightbulbs when everything gets to be too much to handle and I convince myself that I'm not seeing enough sun and that's why I'm low keyed--because the light, and the heat of the light trick me into thinking the world won't fall apart and that even though it's hailing in Wisconsin, I'm unaffected.

The only thing I haven't been able to figure out is whether or not this cat, and this cat are speaking in French accents to me.