11-13-99 Sa 2:20 PM I'm at Farmer's Market.  I rode up here on my bike and met Getoff.  I read the paper and had some lackluster turkey hash and some phenomenally shitty service.  There are pretty girls everywhere and all of 'em make my balls shudder.  It's too early to talk to girls.  I don't feel too hungover this morning except my back hurts.  When I'm done with this i'll read some more Poe and then I'll go type a third-person page.  Still got plenty of Ann obsession, but it's starting to manifest itself in every pretty face I see.  I just took a picture of the two pretty girls sitting by the watermelon stand.  I'm sure it'll come out blurry.  Getoff's reading Forbes magazine.  The counter is yellow.  The ketchup bottles are red.   What else?  We've got to go down to Fullerton tonight for my sister's going-away party.  There was another massive earthquake in Turkey.  Tomorrow, I have a game, and I have to go down to Downey to pick up that mattress and box spring from Florelle and to get that frame from Ikea.  Thing said he'd help me.  Getoff got a beer.  I'm running out of things to say.  I love how lively this place is.  I could go for a puff.  Mac wanted me to try to pick up his TV and bring it down to Orange County for him.  What else?  I've got on a green plaid flannel shirt on and khaki pants and black Dr. Scholl's orthopedic grandpa shoes.  I gotta go poo.  I just told Getoff to go clear the pretty girls table for them, but he's afraid.  I gave the requisite response that he's a fucking pussy.  "If I was done here, I'd do it," I said.  They left.  The pretty girls left.  Faded into the myriad people.  I hate myself.  Oh, the rue.  They felt it, too.  I think I'll take my Poe book to the Farmer's Market commode if I ever get to the bottom of this page.  I don't really want to go to Fullerton because I don't fancy hooking up with any girls who are more than a twenty-minute car ride away.  Hahahahahahaha.