11-8-99 M 4:05 PM
I'm at the Bounty.  I've got fifteen hundred dollars in my pocket.  I rode my bike to Wilshire and Vermont and took the red line downtown.  Fifteen hundred is all those assholes would give me for that stupid ring they charged me thirty-four hundred for.  When they sell it to you, they tell you how nice the stone is, when you try to sell it back, they tell you how shitty it is. Goes without saying. My little Russian beauty, Anna, has been sitting with me for about an hour now.  There's some definite chemistry, but I could never be serious with her, and she's too sweet to just toy with.  I have to pick up my film. Should I take a bereavement day from work  [Joe V. Kinnard, Sr., Boise, Idaho in the man's own writing]  tonight?  I was hoping Thing would be home so we could go up to Ikea with his pickup to buy furniture. I typed fifteen minutes this morning.  I haven't eaten yet today except some cold broccoli.  I'm not going to work tomorrow either.  Well, now what?  I guess I'll go home and eat some celery with peanut butter and read some more Poe.   I'm getting a little sick of his histrionics.  Do my third-person page.  I read the second Epistle of Timothy last night.  What else?  I guess I owe a page in my next journal.