it's monday morning; yesterday was my day off. and a fine day off it was, though there's very little of it i'm able to remember at the moment. one can still find traces of the day's activities in my hair, my breath, my shirt. expired time lingers like old spider webs in the corners of the ceiling.

i've been drinking coffee and alcohol all day, smoking all day. sometimes i wonder if subconsciously i'm adopting the writer's lifestyle, disregarding entirely such trivialities as making sense in conversation or actually producing work for others to read (rambling blogs don't count). i'm lucky at least to have other similarly dysfunctional creative types around as company. this way i know i'm not crazy.

did we go to georgia today? i think we did. poor waitress.

adam: "the difference between our parents and us is that one day we're gonna have to deal with our kids seeing our myspaces."
bobby: "i feel worse for the kids. they're going to have to deal with pictures of their myspace-slut of a mother all over the internet. sad little bastards."

lately i've run back into the arms of an old lover (jean-paul sartre). haruki murakami waits in our apartment, sitting alone at the dinner table as our food gets cold. don't wait up for me.









adam: "i'd say it takes about a half-hour to get there."
charlie: "no way, man. it's definitely closer to 40 minutes."
bobby: "what you fail to realize, charlie, is that we operate on 80-minute hours."