A familiar time: report time. Though it is so hot outside and the humidity finds a way to make the air conditioner fail at it duties, and though sometimes a buxom-like cloud finds its way across the space and blocks the sun, chopping its rays to look like falling golden logs, and though the crime rate is high and bums are even higher, and the smell of garbage kills nostril hairs, and the teetering tourist clogging the ways, and the wonderful women, of all measurements and nationalities, of various sub-cultures, and hair colors strutting on by, I am missing out on all of this for the sake of getting a paper that will say I completed such and such but really I gave them such and such money to give me the said paper. Anyhow, I've said a mouthful.

I've broken up my work for this weekend in several prongs: Finish and reflect on Tennessee Williams selected short stories, research Camus and prepare an oral presentation, develop a theme using Chekhov and Faulkner for the final paper of my silly academic career, and lastly, finish off this bottle of Red Diamond 2001 Merlot that leaves me with a buzz so dizzying I laugh at random text messages people give me.

Two more weeks left. Two more weeks left. Two more weeks left. Or is it three?

I got turned down by an Alaska job... so much for getting in touch with nature and long winter solitude. I also got turned down by a Washington State job... so much for creating meth labs out in the wilderness and trips to Portland. I got turned down by a Maryland job, ah, well, fuck them anyways, not much out there but rich people and lobster bisque.

Still waiting for Texas to grant me access to their wonderful state.

I realize my biggest fear, or two of them. One - to steal a quote-, not being able to "live to the point of tears" and not being able to finish all the books I want to read.

Three cheers for wino blues... huzzah!