the lonesome lows don't quite go away overnight.

i just finished watching the red violin with my mom. i wish someone warned me it was over three hours long. it was well done, but too damn long. i wished halfway through that someone would smash the damn thing already.

i really wanted something miraculous, different to happen today. but today was just like any other. i did start a short story called broken lock. i'm only a single-spaced page into it; hopefully, i'll learn to stick with it. i created a character named samir. who knows where it will go.

my mom ordered vegetarian pizza from round table. i had four slices and then helped myself to a slice of lemon meringue pie.

i have a two hour interview tomorrow, concerning my potential employment with CTB - McGraw Hill. business casual, so they say. it already sounds unpleasant.

i feel sick tonight. maybe it's from sitting down for three hours, watching a film about a musical instrument.

i'm wearing my orange cardigan i purchased from the thrift store i once worked in. i was going to steal it, like i did many other items, but i acted too slowly. someone already tagged it and put it up for sale, so i had to purchase it like any other normal sucker. it serves me well, though. a little beady, but still intact. in college, i once helped a girl move a giant sleeping bag, or something, down to the laundry room. she complimented me on my cardigan. "it reminds me of kurt cobain," she told me. she was a dirty hippie, if i remember correctly.

i wanted to write this poem the other day, but never got around to it:

two black men walk down arden way,
talking, looking tough.
"i'm mad hungry," one says.
"macky-d's, macky-d's," the other spouts.
one's got a lean face, dreadlocks dangling,
the other shades himself with crooked baseball cap.
crooked cap: "got cash money on you?"
"coupla dollars, you feel me?" lean face says.
he digs deep into the recesses of sagging denim,
draws a wad of folded cash.
"that'll do, that'll do," crooked cap says.
they speed to a trollop, 'til their voices fade,
leave nothing, save that for mad, electric laughter.

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