So I ripped the left knee of my jeans. Now my leg is cold. Isn't that crap?

Also, this is big news, I started reading Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon and The Path to the Spider's Nest by Italo Calvino. Calvino's prose is amazing to read. I can't imagine writing as gracefully as that, and it's a translation. So it's not even as good as it could be. Chabon is also amazing. I can't imagine being as graceful as him either. But with Calvino it seems natural and almost divine. Chabon's writing seems to be the hard labor of years, but nonetheless amazing. Here's what you won't believe: I'm going to start The DaVinci Code tomorrow. I really want a good story that drags you in quickly. And when I found out that Audrey Tautou is going to be in the movie, and that I will definitely have to see that, I then realized I better read the book first.

I feel very frustrated about writing. I have a strong desire to write. As if I am being pushed from behind by some unknowing muse. She wants me to write but she won't give me any good material. I keep thinking of things to write about and feelings I want to convey but when I start typing it's all too difficult.

So, I'm frustrated.

Tonight, no one is coming over; a strange sunday. But I guess it just means everyone hates me. So that's ok. I watched "The Constant Gardener". Very well done. We (Teresa, Em and I) watched "Me and You and Everyone We Know." Now we are watching "Vanity Fair." I'm hoping Reese Witherspoon gets naked. And you think I'm joking. And if you don't, well, I am joking - come on.

Have fun whatever you're doing. Fags.


Look, I'm kidding.