I really like my day-timer. It's Moleskine brand. Apparently, Hemingway wrote in one. Some other famous writers. So, basically I write like them if I write in a journal that is over priced but fucking worth it. It has soft paper, even to the finger-touch (!), and when I have ten bullets of things to do, the goddamn paper helps--I swear, it does.

Doing some great late night reading: My own book. The Last Edit. I push it to the other side of my night table and read other peoples memoirs. But it glares at me and with my own melancholic picture on the front. Damnit! So I read the stupid thing for at least the twentieth time.

And it's pretty great: Ain't nothing like reading about yourself having seizures from cocaine, two of them within twenty pages, before bed. It's great. Really--it is not.

Honestly, this book has killed me as much as it has saved me. I try to identify with the little girl in it, the woman, but it feels so fucking weird and sorry for the expletives here but it is my blog, after all, and I spend most of my day writing informational articles in which I have to use keywords and formatting blah blah. Important stuff. Unlike this.

And the book bothers me. I want to write another one. About someone else. Maybe my dog. I don't know. I just get so tired and feel so trapped sometimes. Welcome to my melancholy.

It's still raining and my dog still makes life permeable.

That is all. Save for stupid picture.