My masculinity has deserted me

in the blur of swiftly folded shirts and condescending customers. I've fooled myself into thinking this was good enough for a while now, and just recently broke out of the spell with the aid of beer and cigarettes. Tomorrow, I ready myself for change. Tomorrow, I break free and explode into a future of uncertainty and promise.

Or I get drunk and write some. Either way.

Loving Daisy. Came around on it. Sick of Boss sucking the testosterone from my nutsack, but I'll get used to that too. Or not. Peace bitches.

Daisy

Wow, this album is heavy. Not exactly what I expected, but I'll give it a few more listens before deciding anything.

Those guys need to cheer up.

If Dan finishes up in the next couple days

or even if he doesn't, I'm starting in on the final draft. I'm still not sure if the whole thing works as a dramatic whole, rather than a collection of affecting short stories, but I'm at the point where I'm ready to be done with it, regardless. It's been tough, at times, to see the forest for the trees, but I'm not ashamed of the (almost) finished product.

So I'm not winning a Pulitzer or getting on Oprah. I very well might get published, and then what? I've got a second book planned, either way. It's going to touch on many of Champions' themes, but I'd like to empty out all the cynicism and negativity and just write something really honest, beautiful, and sad.

Swinging for the fences, as always. Either hit a home run or strike out.

Champions

Waiting on final input, then finishing up. Attempting to contact agents starting tonight. Looking into independent publishers.

It will happen for me. It has to, right?


(probably not)

Stuck.

No escape in sight. KC's despondent in California and I'm completely stuck in the frozen north. Tired and sad. Everything from the Bills to this job to KC's situation is weighing heavily on my shoulders. Just want to publish the book, find a job I like, and get free.

Good luck.

Really sick of

secret shoppers and UPTs and DPTs and sucking up to morons, trying to sell shit I couldn't care less about. Ready for a real life, if one is out there waiting.

Also, tired of this self-destructing body and my self-destructive habits.

Gosh am I happy

to watch some football, even if the Steelers did win. Can't say I'm holding out much hope for the Bills, but the Packers might be fun enough this season. Dom and I split a 12 pack variety mix of Long Trail and watched the Thursday night game, switching every commercial break to catch pieces of "Animal Armageddon." Dear Animal Planet, are you proud of yourself now?

Work still sucks, and in REALLY fun news, someone (no names, of course) forgot to pay our gas bill, so I'm sponge bathing myself with microwaved water like the world's fattest boy.

Either way, this is dangerously close to rock-bottom. It could only be worse if I were an 840 lb teenager or a prehistoric animal during armageddon. I think I might read some Stephen King novels, since I'm a moron and like books about monsters.

Death Poem

General Samurai Akashi Gidayu prepares to commit seppuku. His death poem is displayed before him and in the upper right corner.

KC left for LA today.

So the apartment suddenly feels much larger and emptier than it ever has. Dropped her off at the airport at 4:30 AM and got home in time to not sleep at all (around 5:30.)

The all-encompassing ennui continues. Starting writing a second story or novel or novella or whatever. Done with cynicism. Still waiting on Daniel to provide some input on Champions.

Realize this might be kind of hard to read. Sorry.

Sending the draft

over to Dan, hoping for the best, obviously. Got two suits, and they look just dandy. Read a couple stories from How We are Hungry during lunch break and enjoyed them.

These are the days of our lives. And, no sir, there's nothing wrong with the shirt. The problem is with you and the fact that you've managed to reach obesity at the age of 23. No, we don't have it in an XXXL. I think maybe we should just let this one go.

Remember

being 16, going to concerts, the excitement of drinking beers by bonfires and chasing girls and smoking weed while sitting on the hoods of cars at four in the morning. Remember beaches and the hot sun and the slowly passing trails of clouds cutting light wounds in blue skies. Remember snowboarding and running and feeling every victory and failure with red-hot clarity. Remember the subtle buzz and burn of youth and how far away it seems even here, halfway through twenty six.

Wake up from dreams of childhood with tears in my eyes. Shower. Go to work.

Repeat.

Tired of phone calls

from jobs I hate. Tired of high expectations for low pay and no fulfillment. Tired of the mall, and the suburbs, and the sunny days spent locked away behind walls of concrete and metal. Tired of waking up ready to go to sleep every single day. Tired of running in circles.

The novel is just under 51,000 words now. KC read it and offered very useful criticism. I am working on a query letter, and will begin to shop it in October.

Stage 1: Sell it.

Stage 2: Get the hell out of dodge.

But where will you go? Wherever.