i hate april fools because i can't ever read the news

Sometimes I get really excited to write and put something down. And then I start writing and none of it feels as luminescent as it should be. I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth and started to think about being on a ship at night on the open sea forever. Trying to construct a metaphor for how I feel at night. I don't particularly feel like drinking. And I've read so much. Just plowing through Middlemarch is defeating in its own right. I walked downtown yesterday, joking with Tom that it was good practice for my future as a hobo. I saw a woman with two of the same dog, each with their own leash, and they were walking on opposite sides of her. I started to imagine that maybe she was a super secret spy for the Norwegian government. I mean, what kind of fucking person has the same exact dog twice?! Must have been a gift from the top Norwegian scientist because they are lovers.

I am on that the ship, and mostly it is me lighting lanterns with a flickering candle because there are no stars in the sky. And I just sit on the ocean forever just staring out. It sounds pretty bleak and poetic.

I had this awesome plan for the fall which involved me not going to school and seeing how I liked that. But then I realized on my 3 hour walk that I would lose my health insurance, which, doesn't sound like a keen prospect to me. So now I'm back where I started, registered for English 102 and Beginning Spanish since those are reqs and I never got around to taking them. I think I might just stab my eyes out before then to avoid the insane bullshit, boredom, horror of having to go to those classes.

We all get real good at dealing with shit, huh.

I had a pretty story in the works. Regarding 7 kids who play around in a dusty lot. The leader wears a tin pasta strainer on his head stolen from his Existential writer father, who writes in the morning, drinks in the afternoon, and practices his philosophy at night. They each bring the other kids into an adventure, based upon their own imagination. So for instance, young Fitzgerald takes all his comrades on a Wild West Adventure complete with cowboys and indians.

I just keep dreaming about French Toast and the possibilities of the day until I wake up and look out the window and realize that there is no French Toast. I think its a terrible problem, something happened in my development as a child and now I'm fucked. Which brings to light a plethora of other things to muse about. All of which are completely fucked in their own right. Like I'm tanning myself in the sun and saying, 'Julian, you are going to burn, just get the fuck out of the sun,' And I respond back, 'Fuck that.' Knowing I'm going to burn but don't give enough of a shit and just toast away. Until later I'm shuffling around like an old man in the dark of my room saying, 'This fucking hurts. Why didn't I listen?'

Exactly.

Which brings me to how awesome my window looks compared to everyone else's window out here in the ghetto. Mine is now covered in torn out sheets of a creative design magazine I bought in Tromso. Fuck curtains. I ducktape sheets of magazine together to make my own homemade hobo curtains. My room has become an awesome art piece. I'm going to start holding tours.

Here is the bed in the middle of the room.

'Why is the bed in the middle like that,' asks one of the mothers on the tour?

'Oh, because the artist finds that by placing the bed in the middle he finds himself day dreaming about being out in the open sea. As well as it allows him to lay at arms length from anything he desires, his computer, his books, pad and pencils, etc.'

'Oh, I see', she mutters. Staring out in disbelief.

Another person raises their hand and the tour guide smiles and waves away. 'Yes?'

'How come he has so many coke bottles lined up neatly, one against the other?'

'Excellent question. You'll find that the artist, in his all consuming boredom, starts living more and more in his own mind'--and the tour guide taps his index finger on his temple--'and that the coke bottles remind him of his time spent in Colombia. So he will sit in that chair'--which somehow sits on top of his bookshelf--'and he just looks out at the glistening red and white corporate logo until he feels better.'

The crowd gasps and they all take pictures.

'Please, no flash photography', says the tour guide.

'Now', he smiles with a large toothy grin. 'Let us explore the bathroom!'

And we hear 'oo's' and 'ahh's' from the tour group.


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I've a piece of Salmon defrosting in the refrigerator. Its been there since yesterday afternoon. I hope that it hasn't gone bad. Its my lunch. I plan on putting it in a non-stick pan, with some butter underneath to melt with the fish while it broils in the oven. And then on the sides I plan on putting spinach and sweet red pepper to cook along with the fish. I think fifteen minutes and then I'll remove. Sprinkle some salt, get some bread and serve.

For dinner we have peanut butter that was flown from Las Vegas to Oslo, courtesy of care package awesomeness, and on white bread with a glass of tap water.

For breakfast we had cornflakes with sugar and 1.5 percent milk.

Somewhere between all of this, a banana is in the works, but I haven't yet to decide when, if ever, I will eat the banana.

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i was meant for the stage