I’m still here.

Stealthily drinking a coffee in a public library.

Still in flux.

I’ve started taking some courses after work for graduate credit. Maybe I can get a Masters degree in two or three years or so.

My withdrawl from here is acute.

I need to find more sources of social support because frustration in isolation sucks.

Twenty-seven has been a hard age so far.

I put Liz Phair on. Cooking a pogo. Two Pogos actually. Paw Paw for Jesus.

I had a big glass of Pinot Noir. ****** went to Yoga.

Eatin my pogos.

Well well well. Look who’s background is suddenly fashionable again.

Absence makes the heart grow fungus.

It’s the pits that I’m not writing here anymore.

Hairy bacterial pits.

Maybe tomorrow.

I was supposed to play softball tonight but it was canceled due to rain. The field’s all soggy. Like my gum.

Apparently ****** has been running rampant searching out every comment I’ve ever left. She’s upset as she should be. I hesitate to write anything anymore since guilt and paranoia fight with my desire to express myself. Do I just continue to pour myself out here until my little private bubble is popped one more time? She promised she wouldn’t read it again. I’ll probably stay until no one is paying any attention anymore. And then maybe after that.

I don’t know if I’ll comment on any entries that aren’t protected anymore. I don’t know if I’ll do even that.

I’m confused and unhappy.

There was a story on the public radio show, This American Life, about a confused girl. She lusted after an engaged man and was unhappy. She decided to write about her life as a short story for her creative writing class. All her classmates would read the story and then during the in-class discussion she would gain valuable insight on her situation. Her instructor and peers questioned the protagonists motivations, her short sightedness and pointed out how self-absorbed she appeared to be.

****** broke into my Xanga account and read everything again.

*sigh*

About to eat a burrito. I forgot to take it out of my backpack so its probably infested with an assortment of microorganisms. Hopefully the microwave killed most of them. I can handle the idea of ingesting their heat ruptured carcasses but I don’t want to eat squiggling nasties. It’s not tasting good at all. I’ve ruined it for myself.

NPR has a show called, “This American Life” that I’m completely addicted to and in love with. It’s all streamed through their website. The show is comprised of stories/mini documentaries. The CBC3 radio podcast is awesome too. I hate TV.

I want to start a public blog again. One that friends, family, coworkers and even girlfriend could read. I could tell people about it and then not feel so guilty about falling out of touch with them. But I can’t imagine writing anything that I would want all of those people to simultaneously know. I like having different types of relationships with different people. Maybe I shouldn’t be that way. But I am.