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11:52 p.m. - May 22, 2003
On pragmatics
Axiomatic relationship between emotional potential-turmoil and ambition and achievement: Today I wrote more of Book Two than I have in the past month. Yes, yes, this is how I remember working hard, focusing, the rhythm of the keys comforting me, grabbing hold of the doldrums and pulling them up up up. Music punctured by rustled paper, progress interrupted for reference-checking, the breeze coming through the windows redolent of something sweet and bitter, much like my thoughts all day long. Ambition.

While I lack emotional maturity and an understood sense of the Self, I clobber myself with ambition and plans: Complete Book Two by mid July, begin writing the book Iíve been thinking of for a year that isnít contractually obligated in borrowed time here and there, begin Book Three by early September.

And while Iím shutting things down, nothing better than a new job. Applications for Job 1 and 2 will be completed and mailed tomorrow and they are far away; one in North Carolina, the other in Virginia.

Some say itís manic.

Boils down to the conviction that I just canít play by the rules so I play by my own, the ones developed for me. You can be you, and Iíll return to the safety of my workaholism and anti-socialism in both theory and praxis to make up for lost time. A lot of lost, wasted, pissed away time.


Iím going to hire a professional to complete the bathroom. Budget is $7,000; prefer to have all work done for substantially less. Tomorrow morning I view the property to make my final decision; if the bid is accepted then I will become a landlord shortly. This means I can go Martha Stewart / Bob Vila on another structure and this thought pleases me immensely.

As for the anti-Jason contingent who left sweetly endearing messages in my guestbook and email inbox, suck it. I suppose itís less monstrous to simply hook up, have anonymous hot sex Ė the term is trick - and never see each other again until one bumps into the other and tries to place the vaguely familiar face as opposed to going on one date, talking on the phone for a total of 9 hours, and deciding it isnít for me. And being honest about it. Well, hey, you all make the stable litter your bed and donít forget to wash the taste of my jizz out of your mouth.

Cold, cold, cold.

Feels good to be me again.


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