SO.

I am at home!  Still!  And by home, I mean the library, which is my childhood home, where I once basked in the glory of books and 1960's architecture.  And then they let me do graffiti inside the building until I got crazy dizzy from all the fumes and they bulldozed the building.
It was a fun time.
I'm writing this book, you see, and I'm actually going to edit it and let other people read it and send it to agents for YEARS and try to get some publisher to read it and put it inside bookstores like Borders and Barnes & Noble.  So this book, unlike all the other things that I've written in my illustrious carrear, feels very big.  This one matters.  This isn't for fun.  I'm so unaccustomed to writing being an activity where there is pressure involved.  Writing is what you do when you need to get away from the pressure and tell stupid stories.  So.  Um.  Or maybe I'll self publish, and languish at the seven thousandth spot on the Kindle bestseller list.  I think that means that you have sold three books.  I'm not sure if I know three people who would want to buy my book.  I've never actually, like, purchased an ebook.  I don't know how that works.
AND THEN I found twenty dollars.

I need to practice some more industrial design drawing business.  BLAG.

I need to get back to work.

I'm working on the whole "Eating things that are good" thing with my family.  Because eating alone kind of freaks me out.

I need to send an email today.  Deep breaths.

I miss roommateboyfriend.

My birthday is four days away and I don't know what to do about it.  Nineteen feels very strange.  All I can think of is the epilogue, which barely even relates.  Any cool and funny things about being nineteen?  No?
I see.

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