I'm reading these stories by Larry Brown from a collection called Big Bad Love. And I'm loving them. He makes me want to write. He makes me want to read. He sort of makes me want to give up on writing. Yet, at the same time, he makes me want to never give up.

There's something about my life that I don't like. Maybe it's work. Maybe it's that I never go out. Well that can't be it. I feel like I have no time to myself. Yet, I live inside my head all day long. I want an entire week to read and do what I want.

I started smoking again in case you didn't know. It doesn't help most of the time. Most of the time its just neutral, just something I do. Other times it hits me and I feel relaxed and in tune with the moment. The breathing and all. And I always smoke outside so there's the whole nature thing. Everything Zen - I don't think so. Gavin does not believe that Elvis is dead. Kill me please.

I get so stressed out at work. I feel anxious and wired. My hands always feel like they are shaking. Sometimes its just my imagination, but other times they actually are shaking. Its not noticeable, but I can't make them stop sometimes. So I have a cigarette. It seems to help. It seems to kill me too. And then see these people with the oxygen tanks, or my Aunt Suzie who had chemo and got about 40 pounds too skinny - all because she smoked. And then there's my Dad. I once underlined the word emphyzema on a carton of his cigarettes. And he had to have gum replacement because of smoking. But there's nothing worse than a smoker who whines about how bad it is, and how he shouldn't. If you're going to smoke, you ought to just do it and not feel ashamed.

I stop talking now.