42 snooze bar blues

i went to soundwaves earlier to sell a few cds, and i was looking around in the used racks while the requisite scruffy guy was reaching his monetary verdict regarding my taste in music. little plastic dividers everywhere, with name stickers on them, in capital letters. i was wandering aimlessly through the aisles, and my eyes fell on the W section where, on the plastic divider with the sticker that said “the wallflowers,” another sticker below that one proclaimed, “my dad wants you to buy my album!” stellar.

i am not at all comforted by the fact that i’m in the home stretch, paper-wise. the home stretch is the worst part, as i run out of both steam and things to write about. i am shaking, and i feel as if i’m made of static on the inside. or something. and my god, it is so windy outside, red-brown leaves are flying horizontally past my window.

but! i got a letter! in a funny envelope!

gratuitous plug: do any of you want to buy my palm pilot?