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I have been humming some song for a couple of days. I couldn�t place it, until today, reading some poetry, I caught myself with the words

There�s something in the way she moves
Or looks my way
Or calls my name
That seems to leave this troubled world behind

I promptly forgot it. And then, coming out of the bathroom, I remembered I was going to listen to James Taylor when I got home.

(I am fully aware of how uncool this makes me, but when you�re raised with something, it�s hard to let it go)

And so I am. Really loudly.

The smell of pumpkin apple muffins is slowly working it�s way out of the oven, and that always makes most everything alright. I made them from scratch, and I�m not fucking sharing. Maybe with Kristin, but only because she�s bringing me turkey tomorrow, in my smoking, drinking haze. But that�s it.

. . .

I walked into the kitchen, looking for my coffee cup, and noticed my mom�s sitting on the counter. Then I remembered she�s not here.

. . .

My issues lay in the fact that I can�t let a thought go by without picking it up and sticking it under a high powered microscope. I�d really like to just let them stay in the kitchen sink with the dirty dishes.

. . .

I bought this CD in Boulder with Dave, and he hated it. I�ve been known to put Mexico on repeat, in mid winter, and close my eyes.

. . .

And the muffins are done.

And I�ve poured myself my first drink of my day and a half bender.

Here�s to chronic updating.

4:59 p.m. - 2002-11-27


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