Theres a dog on our street who likes to stand in a bucket. Ive been trying to get a picture of him for the last couple days. Our paths will cross eventually and then this blog will really get exciting.

Ive been cyber stalking people from high school. The wildest part is that everyone else seems to have stayed in touch, as if that were the logical course of events. Tori's wedding album was my high school lunch table sans myself. I really wanted to drop a note to several of these people but that would have required signing up for MySpace.
I predict that eventually, Ruth will get around to bothering me about joining that as well (to add to the long list of online things Im already a part of because of her relentless nagging; Friendster, blogger, facebook, etc.) but for now, Ill just wait for the reunion.

I thought about writing a book last night. Usually when I daydream about these sorts of things, I see myself in the process of completing it rather than enjoying the final outcome. I am toiling over a laptop with an ashtray erupting in cigarette butts on one side and a cup of cold coffee on the other (sort of looks like finals week in Japan, actually) rather than squinting at flashbulbs during a book signing.
The process of writing a novella (as opposed to research) appeals to me because of the motions one goes through in order to write something from nothing. The catharsis of getting all those ideas out of my head and onto paper, the insanity of not sleeping and being self concious about people who arent me but are my creations, its all very mysterious. I like constructing reality around me and at least when one is writing a story they can get away with exaggerations and lies, whereas in actual life thats just fancy justification for being a jerk.
The end result is always so disappointing though and I feel as though there is enough terrible writing in the world. I should not contribute to the problem. I feel the same way about all art really. Is that post modernity or just complaining?