After reading a lot of diaries this morning, I'm kind of relieved that this whole 'oh, fuck, what about my FUTURE?' thing isn't just limited to this house on the lake.

So I'm not alone in wondering just what the hell I am going to do w/myself in the years to come. Good?

I promised myself that I would not cut my hair until I got published, and yet here I sit w/my hair pulled back unobtrusively and not a damn letter or manuscript in the mail.

This is bad, I know. Bad for my FUTURE and bad for getting the hell out of this town.

It doesn't help that I'm still battling this awful case of writer's block, either.

Johnny Rotten and Leonard Cohen are alternating vocals in my head. Surprisingly, it doesn't sound half-bad. I wonder if they've ever thought of collaborating...?

Anyway, all this panicking about my future has coincided w/the one year, six month anniversary of K dying. Monday, it was. I couldn't get to the graveyard then cuz May was out of town and she's the only person brave/foolish enough to go to the graveyard at night.

So we went last night. And talked about our blatant disregard for living. Not suicidal...just not giving a fuck about making it through the day.

Hey, another thing I'm not alone in! Yay.

It didn't even occur to me that Monday was 18 months until the next day. You see, I had wanted to go see him that night because I had woken from a dream about him that morning and I make it point to visit after I dream about him.

I remember...he hugged me a lot and made me feel better. When I came home from work Monday night, I wished I could have had that dream again. Maybe I would feel better, if only in dreams.

Then last night we went to see him and May told me that on the way to his funeral, she had seen at least two license plates beginning w/'WHY'.

I'm rambling more than usual, aren't I? Shit, I'm sorry. Too little sleep and too much caffeine is the problem.

Hey, did I just spell that right?

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