Joyce Carol Oates makes me want to get academic with her work. The big new bed I got when I moved is so awesome that I spend my downtime at home right here. My headboard’s got these sturdy bars and would probably hold up well but it squeaks like a monkey in heat. I keep buying books and bikes and things instead of a television and now I don’t care anymore. That’s bad because I was wanting to be a video game writer and video games are generally played on televisions. I’m going to east Oregon next weekend because I’m in the mood for desert. A few days after that I’m in Indiana to meet this girl who I’ll be mad about in all seasons. I keep telling myself to stop posting personal things. I haven’t showered since last night and my hair/beard’s got that greasy sheen to it that comes up when I’ve just been moving around to stretch after sitting for hours writing the most inane shit I can think of because solid blocks of writing are impossible to achieve. I’m the emotional equivalent of a giant ground sloth. I think that’s eleven. I’m getting really bad at the rules.