15 January 2003

I'm running out of things to think about.

Yes, already.

There's only so long you can think, without actually doing ANYTHING. If I could get up, go out, have coffee and a salmon-cream-cheese bagel at Otto's, I'd be okay, and it would replenish my stock of stuff to ponder.

I'm laying in bed all day, thinking of the stupidest shit... It's really sad when your own thoughts bore you... But I just don't have anything to DO. And I'm NOT going to meditate on the bedspread. So I end up trying to recall every inch of the bathroom in my apartment at Oak Street. I find myself flashing back to the most banal and useless events of my life: cleaning my toenails with a guitar pick, cooking macaroni and cheese and humming shitty butt-rock songs, reading "Vogue" with my boss at Record Town,