The cold lingers on. I keep smoking. I keep feeling like poop. I keep thinking: Emphysema. Emphysema is better than lung cancer, isn't it? Cancer is such a nasty word. Chemo, Cancer. The Hard Cs. Emphysema sounds like it could be an Italian delicacy.
Who am I kidding?
I have an Airport Extreme Card now, so I'm blogging from Tiny's on Hawthorne and 12th. I know all these people I see around.
Lindsay and I had this intense conversation at the Basement Pub last night after seeing "Buddy." Ryan has a new lady friend, so now Lindsay is facing the future. That is, she's facing Noah, head-on, without any distractions. I wondered about my insistence on remaining self-sufficient. I lie in bed in the mornings and wonder about my inability to shake this crush like the piece of toilet paper stuck to my shoe that it is. What I need is for someone to come up behind me and step on the toilet paper so that it's no longer stuck to my shoe.
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