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6:45 p.m. - July 21, 2004
Slackerdom intensified, though promises a waning effect late into the night
Out of boredom useless activies are born: Today I began compiling a listing of every book I own. A librarium, a corpus entered in an Excel spreadsheet. Stopped after the battery ran down on the notebook, line 753, Cuentos Españoles de Colorado y Nuevo México. A fruitless, pointless exercise that did nothing other than occupy my mind, stop me from thinking about nothing at all. In the event of a disastrous fire, grab the notebook as Exhibit A for insurance purposes.

Too many books. A fire hazard.

My head feels heavy and cloudy and I'm covered in a sheen of sweat I rub off my forehead. Is it a legitimate claim to say I'm recharging, or must I be honest and say I don't know what's wrong, insist that something is off-kilter because being homebound for days is abnormal? I'm hiding out until I stop feeling stupid and ashamed that the front lawn is just rototilled dirt. Brad addressed my tendency to be (too)hard on myself underneath the calm nonchalance, to give in to the anger and heat until it exhausts itself and I emerge once again with the quotidian smile and Everything's great, how are you?

Evidence I'm getting over the lawn debacle: I went to Safeway and bought a turkey sandwich on sourdough slices, mustard and pickles, checked my mail. I didn't worry about anything, not even when I pulled into the driveway and saw the pile of dirt. Tomorrow I'll be fine again, as fine as I am when I venture out.

Hysteria and hyperbole, two nefarious h-words that spell d-r-a-m-a. No dramatics, just me in my house unable to focus.


Avenues for resolution of the yard end in impotence. Bogus - meaning the original company is long-gone - letterhead, the check cashed by Check N'Go, people who respond to the telephone calls claiming they've never head of Salvador and his crew. When I'm angry my Spanish improves dramatically and on this last call, I said to the man that he lacked honor, pride, and balls and is unfit to call himself a man.

Other than that, I'm going to let the dirt sit until a future date. I don't think the homeowner's association has much power left to force lawns, given the proliferation of cars parked along curbs in this Stepford-wannabe glen of fancy gardens and high walls. Back in the day when these houses sold for $400,000 and were purchased by doctors and lawyers while the people who cleaned them lived on the other side of Mowry in their $125,000 shoeboxes, the HOA Nazis mandated paint colors, brick instead of cement, a certain ratio of trees to structures, a miniscule amount of freedom between lawn mowings. Now that these houses sell for a paltry $750,000 and the well-off live in the $1.5s, I think the HOA has faded into oblivion and Mexicans paint their houses garish pinks and - horror - install pre-cast concrete statuettes of la Virgen on their front lawns.

You bet I long for the olden times.


Earlier I ate raw soybeans. Five hours earlier. And I cannot get the taste out of my mouth.


I can't even get a mental boner on politics.


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