5-31-00 4:03 PM W

When I got home from school today, a bouquet of flowers rested on the bed beside a note from Rachel. The flowers had been gathered from the yard. The note said she loved me, a full page of lined paper saying she'd do anything for me and a lot of stuff recommitting herself. I think it's an example of what she wants me to do for her. I'm such a bastard. These kinds of things always make me feel worse.      I was reading a three-year-old journal. I was so horrible to Shirelle. It made me sad, and I missed her.      I rolled a smoke. I put it in the ashtray after a few puffs.      The Indians and Chuck Finley were supposed to be on, but it was raining in Cleveland, so they were showing the Royals in Boston. Sox coach Jimy Williams was ejected from the game. I have to live to work here in about a half hour on the red bike I don't like. Another gift that pains me. I'm a jerk. Felix fixed the window. He put longer screws with wider threads through the hinge, and that seemed to do the trick. I yelled at Donkay pretty good today--gave him my Bobby Knight impression.    I've got to mail that gift to Scott and Kim.      It stopped raining in Cleveland. Salmon greeted his old teammate by belting one into the right center seats.     My mother gave me some photographs from before the divorce when my siblings and I were small children. They make me sad. I was going to draw a picture of my brother and me in feathered Indian hats, arms folded on our chests at Knott's Berry Farm. I couldn't do it. My brother's innocence lost. I couldn't draw it. I couldn't think about it. I couldn't bear to look at it. I can only write about the feeling of it, from an obtuse angle, like light through a prism. I can't decide whether to paste that photo in this book. It seems a dishonor to the boys in the photo. I was four. He was two. The light comes from the right of frame. I don't know if it's afternoon or morning. I should call him and mom about Chicago. Read Stevenson's "Enjoyment of Unpleasant Places." Type a third-person page. Read more Bukowski.