Must eradicate last entry. I don�t know why, I just know I must. I get so sick of everything I write. I want to push delete delete delete.

There is an edge of panic when I sit down at the computer. Must write further and faster must get the right words out for once but I never do. I can�t tell you what I really mean. I can�t think to myself what I really think. I am speeding through here and I can�t find a solution. Can�t find the words to erase all the doubt and fear and self-consciousness and self-loathing that creep into every hour. I don�t hate myself, per se. It�s just, I hate that I can�t figure out how to be here. I haven�t figured it out yet. And so I get my rage on and feel myself teetering on the edge of some great danger, some self-inflicted danger and then that good safe part of my brain knows that I�m just scamming myself that I�m absolutely full of shit when I think or write things like that.

And I�ve gotten myself all kinds of behind on what I should be doing. And so I am incompetent on top of everything else.

I�m happy, see. I am. I love my life, I do. Shut up stupid brain that thinks the mean thoughts. Just shut up.

It�s because of this: I can�t go to the lake anymore. I�m a wreck without this. Walking around my neighborhood with Basho tied up to his leash, tied up to me, just makes me more anxious.

It�s because of this: I long for the company of Bathsheba. I long for her, my friends, I do. I get flashes of this and they�re becoming more frequent and horrible actually.

I remember telling dear Frances this summer when we went to see Drive By Truckers and before Bathsheba was moving to Colorado that I don�t think about how I like her, Bathsheba. I don�t think, she�s so cool and such a good friend. I don�t think it because it�s like thinking about how much I enjoy my lungs, enjoy the ability to breathe. It ain�t a question of enjoyment, it�s a question of necessity. Bathsheba=necessity.

I miss her terribly.

Ok. I better get my arse in gear. I promised today I would be happy and productive. The day will turn on me soon for being such a liar.

And it�s lovely out and I am rested and fed and happy. Except for the horrible misery. That�s the only catch.