5-25-00 1:25 PM Th

5-26-00 12:45 PM F

In another shitty mood. Or is it a still-shitty mood? It has been days now. Or has it been weeks? Years? Always? Fuck it all, anyway. I'm like this a lot. I'm sick of fucking shithead kids. Diontay reminds me of the old racist joke about what's long and hard on a black man. He makes his life and mine more difficult. He pushed down Angel and made her arm bleed. His parents are drooling crackheads. 

The handlebars on my new bike went loose on my way to work yesterday. I had to walk it back to the house and ride the old Huffy which I like better anyway. The whole day sucked. Whatever. I fell asleep after school. Woke up in time to go to school ten minutes late. I was sluggish. Bored. I hate my life. Whatever. Rochelle had to work until one. Her job gives her a backache and a headache. Ugh. Ugh and fuck. I got paid today. It'll all be gone soon enough. I watched "The Sheltering Sky," Bertolucci's take on the Bowles novel in which unsanitary conditions in Africa and good old human nature join to undo the marriage of Malkovich's Porter and I forget the name of Debra Winger's character. I went to sleep without writing. Didn't write this morning, either. Showered. Shat reading about Nebraska in National Geographic. Gave Rochelle a credit card to buy wedding presents for Peach's and Scott's weddings. We're supposed to be in San Diego for the rehearsal at seven, but we has a sonogram at 3:30. So, we'll be driving in Memorial Day Friday traffic for three or four hours instead of kicking back watching the Laker game. Oh, joy. Oh, goodie. I have to pick up the tux and figure out where I put the wedding invitations with the info. I don't know where we're sleeping tonight. I won' t get to see any of the college baseball playoffs at Cal State Fullerton. I have horrible feelings about weddings and marriages. I had the nerve to get married, but I didn't have the nerve to not get married. I'm a beast of burden now, a gelding mule. Whatever. I seem to hate writing now, now. I still like to write but not as much as drinking in bars and interacting with other drunks who don't give a fuck. I have a torn soul, a half soul; I'm so typical. Guilt vs. Desire. Fuck me.