I QUIT. finally. And Sheila doesn't hate me for it, and is in fact (I'm sure) quite relieved to finally get that out of the way. As am I.

So two big quits (psychologically): art school and a job I hate, add up to a stress enema. A strenema, if you will. The bowels of my responsibilty are clean and empty, if perhaps slightly vinegary.

I shall go out and buy myself a bottle of wine: this is what we call celebration.

Why is it that one cannot talk about sex without being an exhibitionist, a creep, and someone that no-one generally wants to talk to? Oh this is so old, what am I, living in the dark ages?

There's a certain part of my brain that houses important information, but that is isolated from my speech capacities. Corpus colosseum. I know the thing and yet seeing it I cannot name it. The word does not escape me, but lives elsewhere in the tumbled world of anti-thought that houses my knowledge, instincts, emotions, thoughts. Exiled. A tiny temperate island off the coast, everything green and weepy and hidden through endless mists. Line-of-sight is short and even the vast number of exiles that live on the tiny isle are unaware of each other, occassionally looming out of the fogs, frightening each other and yet mourning their lack of contact with kindred.

Possible life plans (so far):
Peace Corps (or other such service organization)
Teaching something
Get a Fulbright and do research
Truck 'n Run
Nurse my ailing grandfather
Marry a rich man
Join a monastery (preferably in scenic mountain region)

OK. I think they're having a feast in my honor or something. And it looks like my little brother is jealous. Better go talk to him.