What the fuck are you talking about?

Nothing kills the refreshed feeling of coming out of the bathroom to find a missed call from work.

"My boring ass life" by Kevin Smith has reaffirmed itself as one of my favorite books, because it gives me hope for the future. I drift off to sleep with dreams of when I someday write a script or a book or shoot a crappy movie that legions of socially inept schmucks base their entire existence on, those same people will dish out their hard earned money for a copy of my diary detailing little more than what I fed my kids for breakfast, which episode of The Simpsons I fell asleep to, and how often I fuck my spouse. Ah fame-I can't wait to get a big house in LA and fill it with excessive, foreign made shit.

I spent the last hour of my shift today driving up and down Route 36 in Hazlet during rush hour, looking for a graffiti tag that the paper needed a picture of for the next day's paper. It was hot. Everything is hot.

I can't believe it is June 10, soon to be June 11, already. That's the problem with working full time-the seasons aren't really defined anymore. Summer just becomes a lot of excessively hot days spent in a stuff office, that eventually give way to freezing cold.

My birfday is in less than a month. I took the week off from work and am planning a vacation. It won't come soon enough. I want to go to the whole other side of the country and hide in a cave far far away from everything for a little while, but going to New England will have to do.