The Only Thing That Feels Good

Jebus lord. I tried to shop and my legs burrrrned every time I had to stop walking. At crosswalks. And, of course, at racks full of shoes that probably don't fit me in the first place. They are not very size 10-friendly at the Buffalo Exchange, let me tell you. I could buy oodles of boy shoes, but those aren't backless!


So I hurried bitterly home to soak my feet, because it is the only thing that feels good. And good lord, does it ever feel good.

I would start begging the heavens right now for massive floods if I thought it'd help, but that would probably be too dirty to be of any real value.

So it's the fourth week of a nine-week quarter. I'm supposed to write nine stories by August 22nd. I've written exactly one with no apparent prospects for more yet. I am so fucked.

But hey, I've been reading a lot of books and actually paying a modicum of attention to the newspaper, which is healthy. It's just the whole reporting aspect of the class that's fallen to the wayside for me. So fucked.

I should get back to reading and thinking about what the hell to write.

Goddamn, this soak feels good.

I had a dream last night that Kevin lit up a joint in my mom's living room. I was incredulous, but amused as hell. Kevin doesn't do any drugs, much less in my mother's house. Neither does my mom, for that matter. I remember wanting to try it in the dream, but not in the living room. That he lit up at all reminded me (even in the dream) of the scene in The Big Lebowski where the Dude has been taken to the other Jeff Lebowski's study to be given background on his mission to get ransom money ot Bunny's kidnappers and the Big Lebowski is being all melodramatic and shit and the Dude is like, "Mind if I do a J?"

Anyway. Non-standing activities time. I am on the path to recovery.