"Don't ask yourself what the world needs, ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive." - Harold Whitman

• Wait, it's only Wednesday? Yesterday I was excited that "Hey, tomorrow's already Wednesday!" This morning, for about 15 minutes I actually thought today was Thursday.  
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• I had Cheez Its and chunked pineapple (not together, fools!) for lunch.  This was somehow less than satisfying. I feel like eating everything edible around me.  But alas, that cannot happen. Note to self: Start bringing actual food for lunch.
  
  
• I'd rather rip my own sac off than go to monthly meetings. I'm just not much of a numbers/metrics guy. I'm a "leave me alone so I can do the work that produces said numbers" kind of guy. I'm always worried I'm going to be somehow under-prepared or get asked about the ONE thing I didn't bring with me. Usually, it's just fine, but my anxiety level preceding the meeting is lame and unwanted. I'd rather just not do it at all. Alex, I'll take Avoidance for $1000.
  
  
• Is it Friday yet?  Can I take, like, a month off for vacation?
  
  
• "Lenders are returning to the subprime market." Great, now where's my money?
  
  
• My desk is a sea of old reports that are rendered useless .0000000000000000000000000000000000001 nanosecond after the conclusion of a meeting.  SHRED-IT!!!!
  
  
• At least for today, only HALF a Klonopin hasn't rendered me borderline-comatose in my cubicle. Well, yet.
  
  
• Now that I've typed that, my eyes are getting heavy. Power of suggestion? When did I take that half a Klonopin???
  
  
• zzzzzzzzzzzzz...

She's playing Marina and the Diamonds in the other room and cooking me steak and homemade mashed potatoes.

Hey, I helped; I peeled the potatoes.

I'm lying on our ramshackle bed reading "Just Kids" and wondering how this bedraggled old bed compares to Patti Smith's and Robert Mapplethorpe's bed at the Chelsea, or the Allerton.

I'm looking at the books on my bookshelf; the ones I've read, the ones I haven't. I think I'm going to send some surprise book-gifts to a couple of friends. 

I wrote a long letter to my mother. We haven't communicated much in a while. I don't know what to make of it. She lives in Connecticut. Goddammit, I wish we could just break down whatever walls she's reserving, and form the kind of relationship I've waited 15 years to have. Really 33 years, if you're counting literally. I'm sending it to her along with a Tony Hillerman book that I love. 

I wish it was winter. We didn't have one to speak of this year. Robbery, I tell you. I didn't even get to be pensive in a coat and scarf under barren skies and black trees, wishing I still smoked and thinking of Sylvia Plath and her poetry.

But, spring is here and with it I am always somehow renewed, re-energized, reinvigorated.