1:02 p.m. - 2004-03-01
portrait of a young man as incessantly boring
It is tricky to know where precisely this little tailspin began, but I am ready for its end. Not even the most tried-and-true James Brown blaring can put this one out of my head.
I partied most of the weekend away, finding myself (as I often do) in need of serious Sunday-style me time. So yesterday, I spawled out in a hermetic little cave and I have yet to emerge whole.
I need balance. I need a weekend of relative solitude, or at least a weekend of relative sobriety. These whole-day hangovers (my soul far worse off than my body, which is used to this shit by now) can be a bit much.
Not that my all-day Six Feet Under marathon didn't bring on the bulk of this melancholy. I am certain that it did.
Today will be a day in which I accomplish EVERYTHING. This is a boring journal entry that should not have ever been written, but I think I was just making up for the drunken, meandering entry from Friday that was lost to the sands of time, all because of a slip of a finger. Speaking of: the finger is now fine, mercifully. No amputations here. No sir.
