Shit, man, Noah's right. Well, Noah, I do wish your blog were more like a journal, with more storytelling and fewer holes in the narrative, because you have a lot of craft. Start writing more. It seems like a Lovecraft story without the whole cosmic freaky monster continuum thing. Only it's . . . you. And six really strange people. And six other people who are doubtless even more strange. I want to see the movie version.

Meanwhile, I'm mostly waiting for this summer to end. I mean, I hope the band starts meeting frequently, and it would be great if we could actually do something with it, but my days are feeling really empty. Weeks go by without anything memorable. At least, without anything that I'd look back on with joy. I always feel tired and emotionally drained, even though I've been sleeping longer than average. The last day that I really remember was the twenty hour period spent at Anne's house when her mother skipped town. Scott, Anne, Eric and I stayed up watching anime (X, no less), drinking and smoking. And smoking. Scott and Eric dropped off pretty early, and Anne and I sat on the porch finishing a pack each, talking about everything possible. Then we woke Scott up, and he doled out his adderal in the kitchen, the light just starting to shine in. We walked over to the Severna Park library and sat on the steps out front, and I began to write what slowly turned into a list of two hundred song titles. What a beautiful day. Then Scott's father called at 2 p.m. because Scott had been due back at 11 (a.m., not p.m. We didn't keep him out that long). And Scott's father said, "I wash my hands of you. I've dropped the stone of shame.") And then Eric and I mournfully drove Scott home.

Everything since that day has been either a modest recreation or a really lugubrious conversation with either Scott, Anne, or Roger, with a variety of settings (an Irish bar in Baltimore, Tastee Diner in Laurel, the Ellicott City train tracks, Double TT in "Pasadena"). Noah called me today. It woke me up, at 4:30 pm. He told me about the events related in his blog, mostly, and I was too sleepy to talk much. And then I immediately had to shower and go to work. (And I worked all night; yeah the boy's all right.) I've just got nothing much going on. I keep spending money on records in the hope that they'll cheer me up, and every time it just gives me a really empty feeling. Get me away from here, I'm dying. New York Times, send me no more news.

And you know what's really sad? I had planned to finish my Japanese book by the end of April. And I haven't studied it at all since Croquet Weekend. And I haven't written any fiction since February. And I don't really think SJC Santa Fe will help very much. Heck, maybe. But just what kind of life is this, anyway?

On a side note, I hope I just beat Noah for Most Heartbroken Blog right now. That's the real competition, anyway.