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In order to pull myself out of this self-proclaimed "funk," I went to the bookstore. I felt like an idiot after beginning an inquiry as to the whereabouts of a certain piece of nonfiction with "Uh... I'm looking for a book." I could only imagine how dim the customer service lady thought I was. I also wondered how often she was told/asked that. It reminded me of how funny I used to think it would be to walk into a Starbucks, or a McDonald's, and ask them if they sell coffee, or french fries, there.

I am now about halfway through Zoe Trope's Please Don't Kill The Freshman (I also got Jonathan Lethem's The Fortress of Solitude and a copy of The Scarlet Letter, because I didn't have it.). I like it. I can remember thinking like she did, at one point, I think. It's filled with surprisingly literate poetry and lots of well-articulated meanderings on what an unfortunate and dramatic period teenager-dom can be. I am, however, soured by whispers of a six-figure deal for the book. And by soured by, I mean jealous about. I wish I could get paid massive amounts of cash for doing what I love.

But there really aren't a whole lot of openings in the napping department.

Speaking of jobs, I'm applying for one. I might be a counselor, this summer, at a french language camp in Bemidji. Wouldn't that be a riot? Well, no. Not really. Work is lame.

I listened to The Music's self-titled debut a couple nights ago for the first time in quite a while. It totally made me realize that dance-punk is, and has been (for some time now), the shit. Also the shit: The Faint, The Rapture.

Oh. And that haircut I hadn't been getting? I got it. It's weak.

Peace.
-Todd