We are fast-moving

Today is post number 48. I'm planning on getting absolutely tanked for number 50. Stay tuned.

I use this space in absolutely the utmost wrong ways. I don't say anything. I worry that if I ever do find a medium with which to utter forth my creative, ahem, juices, I'll just short-arm it. Afraid of getting hit by a linebacker, my arms will recoil and no truth will come out (the ball will drop). Fourth down. We punt.

I have recently become convinced a good friend of mine is dead. As Wolverine put it, "He does have really bad luck." This won't be funny if it turns out I'm right. Which I'm sure I'm not.

Is it someone else's responsibility to let you go? What if that isn't what you want? What if they've never put you first, and tell you they aren't putting you first? Whose fault is it then?

I've been at Camanche for too long now. I know I will get used to this schedule, and tonight was bad because I didn't bring enough to do, but I'm ready to come home. I'm lonely and ready to come home. My running routine is top-notch up here, and rife with hills scarcely found on the island.

Wolverine has asked I give more day-to-day updates. It's hard when I'm here, largely because my days go like this: work, run, eat, movie/tv, sleep, repeat. Somewhere in there I shower. I plomise. Tonight there was the reading of Klosterman. "Killing Yourself to Live" started with such fervor and promise, now I'm not so sure. I often love what he has to say, and I could isolate a dozen beautiful sentences from the first half of the book, but I find myself disagreeing with what he's saying AND (more importantly?) disliking how he presents it. He is the Rush Limabugh of indie rock, using words like 'obviously' and 'of course' when things aren't....obvious, of course.

Bah. There is a long list of people I want to see. Some of them are girls. Ok, most of them are girls. Not that it means anything. It's mostly coincidence.