6.9.02. 4.35pm.
i wish they all could be.
i am sitting here, in my room, in my new house - a house which is my first real residence ever not with the family of my upbringing - reading a pulizter-prize winning novel, eating fresh rosmary bread with olive oil, drinking a gin and tonic, and listening to the greatest hits of one of the greatest pop bands of the twentieth century. the weather is warm, the windows are open, and the couch is comfortable. my laundry is in the washing machine, and i will cook dinner tonight with several friends. today i cooked breakfast, read for a while, and took a walk, during which i bought a winter coat at a garage sale, a loaf of bread at a bakery, four books at a used books store, and decongestant at a pharmacy. tomorrow, i will meet with the cable installation guy, look for a job, and teach a class.
i may, it seems, be in danger of become a real person.
and that's not as fucked up an idea as it once was.