I�m ravenous. Ravenous, I tell you. For everything. I want drugs and sex and food and I want it all now. I�ve been treading the shallow waters of my shallow life for too many days. Makes me sick to think of it.

Mania ascends. The long months of summer, of no obligation, are before me. I�m horrified when I realize I�ve wasted so much of the last three years on a stupid, scared relationship. Recklessly giving bits and pieces�rather important bits and pieces�to the lowest bidder.

Valentine�s Day, 1999. Up late, after poker, he says, giggling, �I like you.� I tell him I�m not interested. He persists. I acquiesce. Story of my fucking life. I wish I had kicked him off my couch and out the door. Three years later and I exist in this state of suspended timidity because of him. What. The. Hell.

Low-grade headache. Low-grade rage. But also: humming and hopeful and imminently distractable. I know I won�t get a lick of work done today. The air is too three- dimensional, moving through it feels like swimming, feels like love skimming my skin.

Bartholomew Klakk came to my office last night soaked through (torrential rain). He wore a blue t-shirt and blue jeans and his halo of blond hair and oh my oh my oh my. Can�t stop seeing him framed in my doorway. I was a gibbering idiot (�uh, uh, here�s your stuff, uh, bye, uh.�). Not that I care, mind you. I can�t remember the last time I was so physically incapacitated by desire. Feels fucking grand.