Your name is David Keenan. You're at Moira Donelley's house, just outside of Syracuse.

My brain beats a million times per second. I'm not kidding. It never stops, as much as I want it to.

I'm tired. I'm so tired. People have told me that I look sad, and that I don't sound happy, all in the last five hours. I don't know that either of those things are true, but I suppose it's all a matter of perception. I'm just really tired. And bored. What's that line? If you're bored, then you're boring. Well, I don't think I'm boring. I'm just fucking tired.

I spent the last two days up at the 'manche, far from myspace and from blogger. I mean, they exist, but my access to them is limited.

So bulletins regarding the day to day: Tomorrow I'll be on the roof at my parents house. There will be rain, electricity, bright lights, and probably a ladder. On Saturday, I'll fly to LA for an obscenely long hug with 80's era Storm, some cocktails, golf balls with Ted and Cyclops (did that one on purpose) and some Vietnamese food. Fly back on Sunday for rest. God, how I adore rest. Then the camanch again. Then home. Then Camanche. Fucking. Xmas. (re: Christmas) Got the presents ordered and e'rthing.