May 19 Mon. 6:10 PM

I'm writing from my night school class. Class started ten minutes ago, but there are only a few students here so far, so I'm going to wait about five minutes to call roll. Today was the first day of my vacation. It mostly sucked. Shirelle called over and over. I told her, "I love you, but our relationship sucks, it doesn't work and it's a sad waste of time." She begged me to give her another chance, to give her five more days. I said, "We've had four years to figure it out. You can't change four years in five days." I had to take the phone off the hook, even though I was waiting for a principal to call. I typed a little, read a little, watched Slingblade, jerked off a few times. I want to hurry home after class to see the end of the Rockets/Jazz game. I gues I'll smoke some even though my lungs are are all fucked up, and then I'll write a page. Maybe I'll go up to Blockbuster and rent a movie. I think it will probably be a pretty dull fucking night. I fell terrible about Shirelle. I haven't been able to write much at all. I'd like to go out and drink and shoot pool.

My little happy Room to Write book says to not worry about failure. Even when we don't produce what we want, as long as we produce, it's not failure because we learn and build from it. It says to write a page of crap and not worry about it. The book doesn't realize that that's all I ever do is write crap. This pencil is becoming a colon, the led, an anus, this book, a toilet and the writing shit.