Without unceasing practice, nothing can be done.  Practice is art.  If you leave off, you are lost.

3-1-00 to 3-30-00

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#46 This is not the life that God envisioned

3-1-00  W 1:20 PM

School just ended for the day, mercifully.  Rochelle and I watched the Lakers beat the 'Blazers.  I was too tired or stoned or out-of-it to do anything after that except go to bed.  I got up early this morning and showered.  I finished a third-person page and ate a bagel. Drank some coffee.  Took a vitamin with juice.  Played guitar.  Rode my bike to work.  Got a newspaper.  Bush swept yesterday's primaries.  The kids presented their experiment results.  They did pretty shabby work.  My fault.  We did phonics and standardized-testing practice.  At recess, I had STEPS info put into the bulletin.  I have to find out how to get paid for Saturday.  Math after lunch.  "Regrouping More Than Once."  Picked up the Swamp Angel print from the framer.  Social Studies.  Basketball.  Estefania's stepmom.  Email to check.  Wait 'til tomorrow.  Go home.  Read Blake.  Nap.  A new sentence for Jim.  I lack originality these days.  Call GM.  Ride bike to night school.  Make chicken parmesan.  Watch "Virginia Woolf."  Music tomorrow. Friday.  The car comes.  Saturday?  No plans.  Baseball Sunday if no rain.  Six weeks until spring break.  Four months til summer vacation.  Househunt.  4:32 PM I hung the Swamp Angel.  When I got home, I realized I didn't have my backpack.  I rode my bike back to school and got it.  Now I can finish this.  

The latest interdimensional mystery: the paper with what I owe in taxes has gone missing in action.  It was on my desk all week when I didn't need it for anything.  Now that I need it?  Vanished.  I have to put the amount on my credit card today to get the earnings on my credit card toward our car tomorrow or else we have to wait another month, which would be bad.  Very bad.  I called Phylicia whose husband is the accountant that did my taxes.  She said she'd call me as soon as she got home and let me know.  I hope the IRS doesn't close at five.  Ugh.  What else?  I'll read Blake after this.  Then I'll play guitar.  Then I'll have to go teach my night class.  Urgh.  Then I've got to type fifteen minutes still.  Still haven't done that yet today.  I need to be more creative with my exercises.  Ugh Ack Ick Fuck Fick.  Shit. Crap.  Augh.