Cmon now.

2002-10-17 1:49 p.m.

I stopped short of writing a song from beginning to end last night. Just short of recording the vocals. Just short of writing the lyrics for it and another song. My juices were flowing and I just stopped. I have no problem writing lyrics, either.

I’m angry at myself. More than I should be.

All I want to do now is go home and sit at the machine and for fuckssake finish it. Arrrghh. Ruff.

I don’t want to be a pessimistic fuck. That’s why I can’t hang out with pessimistic fucks very often. It’s just such a fucking downer. I would kill myself if I thought like that. Perspective has such a dramatic effect over your whole mental state, it’s a daily battle for me to have the perspective that makes me clearheaded and inspired by toilet paper and literature alike.

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2002-10-17 11:38 a.m.

What

lesser-known Simpsons character are you?

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Dingle Berry Cherry

2002-10-17 10:35 a.m.

Unless you like to surf.

24 hours a day.

I was just discussing with Steve, the hyper, quirky British guy who works in the next cube, that I was going to the Bach Mass in B minor at Symphony Hall. He is also going.

“What day are you going?” he asks.

“Friday.”

“Oh good, then we’ll miss each other. I’m going Sunday. If we ran into each other it might be a disaster.”

“Yes,” I say, “if you had to acknowledge me in public, it would tarnish your social reputation.”

He laughs

“I’d have to introduce you, ‘this is Tara, she’s the direct assistant to the CFO and he pimps her out to me once a month to do my bank reconciliations.’”

He always used to ask Tom if I could do something for him. I told him that Tom wasn’t my pimp, and that he could ask me directly if he needed help.

I always try to get him to take me to his grown up parties (he’s 28, but he hangs out with people usually much older than him). He was going to a bona fide wine and cheese party, and I tried to go, but he basically told me that I wasn’t classy enough. He is the most untactful person I have to deal with. People are funny.

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