Billie Joe never had a lick of sense -- pass the biscuits, please.

This morning at 6 am while getting ready to go to the train station, Sean said something about feeling like he'd just been released from a hospital and I agree. Last night I was so exhausted that at 9 pm I started to physically feel my brain mushing up against my eyes and skull. I was trying to stay awake so Lowenstein could come pick up some camping gear but I finally just called her and said "Must sleep now. Will come by your house in the morning. Bye." and hung up. At least that's all I remember. Apparently she called back an hour later to add something to the list of things to bring, but I was so asleep I didn't hear either phone ring.

Last night I had a fabulous fabulous phone conversation with a long lost friend in Seattle. Well, maybe not long lost, but it has been possibly a year since we chatted. Until I've converted her to the livejournal cult, I will call her B.G. because those are her initials and I like her moniker being the same as a sub-mediocre rapper in the Cash Money Millionaires. She's such a Baller Blocker. At this time I would like to express gratitude to Sean for tolerating me being on the phone for half an hour while he was in my house. I'm normally not so rude but I hadn't talked to her in sooo long and I'm so glad we got to at least exchange the Cliff Notes version of what's been going on in our lives.

Between therapy yesterday, the phone conversation, going to bed at 10pm, and some early morning lovey time today with Lowenstein, I'm in fabulous spirits. I look forward to coming home from work tonight and ravaging the boy (possibly utilizing a military-themed scene since he went up to the naval base to see a cousin graduate this morning), then going out to T's to hang out with friends for the evening.

Just to warn you, I might be on the prowl tonight.

You'll never have to wonder, we can always play by ear, and that's the deal my dear.

I know I'm a bit late in boarding this gravy train, but I finally joined up to Friendster. You can find me under raybear at livejournal dot com, if you're so inclined. Why I'm adding time-wasters to my life, I'm not sure. Though now that I think of it, I do this sometimes before big change -- it's like I'm starting to build up all this energy to make the change, but in the meantime I need to burn off small bits of it to keep the fire lit. I've had similar period where I join like eight yahoo discussion groups and keep up with every message for a week or two, then drop them. Or when I changed my hair color four times in a month. Or I subscribed to five magazines at a time.

What amuses me most about this Friendster process is getting the confirmation e-mail that announce to me "Myles is now your friend", "Jessie is now your friend", "Kim is now your friend", etc. Like, NOW these people are my friend, whereas before I was walking around in a delusional state thinking and hoping they were.

I've had way too much coffee this morning. I'm trying to just hydrate now so I won't totally crash in the afternoon.

Close to getting tangled up inside the thought of you.

I feel the urge to write something drama-queenish like "I've lost the urge to live" or even "I've got the vapors", but really I'm just suffering from Friday Afternoon Syndrome.

Yesterday evening I went to visit my therapist in a new office. Well, new to me. I used to go to her home office, but from now on I'll be visiting the downtown gigs on Michigan Avenue in a building with lots of art and music students.

I wanted to take the stairs, but they weren't open between certain floors, at least not for going up. So I waited and waited and waited. There were three elevators of the vintage variety, complete with a person to run and push the buttons. I felt nervous about yelling out what floor I needed and was concerned it wasn't loud enough. I figured the worst case scenario is I'd ride all the way up to eight on the way down ask him to stop at six.

At floor five, this white middle aged geeky professor sensitive new-age guy got on the elevator with his son, who was maybe nine.

"Floor six, please."

"What?" said the elevator man.

"Six, please." He put his hand protectively on the boy's shoulder.

The elevator man furrowed his brow as he shut the door. As he pulled the lever, he pointed out the door and said "the stairs are RIGHT there."

White man got a little haughty, but didn't say anything, cause you know, he was some passive academic guy who's "sensitive". But I could tell he was mad because his lips pursed and I saw his hand grip the son's shoulder tighter. He might have even mumbled something like "so what?"

The doors opened, they stepped out and I followed. He turned around to look at me, I suspect to catch my eye and somehow bond with me about the elevator man's attitude, but I had nothing to do with it. I looked forward and just kept walking towards the tiny men's room that contained two urinals, two sinks, and no actual commode -- a different kind of "half-bathroom".

While I was taking a piss, I just kept thinking, "I guess whitey didn't like the hinting that he was lazy."