CAN'T GET A DOLLAR OUT OF ME
It's been a lovely day. I slept for almost twelve hours (which, if I may say, was a wonderful executive decision over going to the bar with friends), and consequently I'm almost entirely recovered from my cold. I visited with Carolyn at work and we talked about all kinds of things: substances, men, insecurities, makeup, writing, indulgence, therapy, top 40 rap. It was the kind of talk that keeps me going; Carolyn is a wonderful friend. Afterwards I watched Rope with a friend, worked out, read poetry by Yusef Komunyakaa and Denise Duhamel, wrote a bit, and find myself currently in the library taking out books that I've already read once but are too good not to read again. This is the kind of day that makes me feel the most humane, and real. I can't believe how chintzy that sounds, but so be it. I'm feeling so good I may treat myself to Beyonce's newest single (metaphorically speaking).

WELL, AREN'T YOU A FLIRTY BUCK?
Happy Birthday, Dave. 21. The big 2-1. The opposite of 12. Can't wait to send you on your first errand to the liquor store.

So I'm still sick. Only a little bit, but occasionally doing very simple things (like walking to class, picking up a stack of books, standing up) wears me out. I liken this to the term "weak as a kitten." It seems pretty applicable.

Today was kind of boring, maybe just because I'm tired and sneezy. Well. It's the weekend now, time to sleep and read and sleep and read. Sounds pretty damn nice, especially since it's getting cold. Fuck joint pain and cough suppressant. The poems have been going really well. I wrote a faux sonnet that I'm really happy about. Maybe this is crazy, but I think I could probably write a manuscript. Yeah yeah. That can't be true.