i haven't been writing.

i got a job and i've worked 51 hours and people have stolen merchandise from under my nose and i sell crack-pipes to crack-heads day-in and day-out. at least my french is better than my german. but i guess what all of this serves to teach me is that i'm still never as bad as i fear i'll be—but at the same time i'm often not as good as i think i am. happy medium? what happy medium? i don't win prose-poetry online contests. i don't even enter them. my novel is shit, and i think it's probably the best thing i've ever written so there you go. 99th percentile my ass. if only i could stop thinking for a little while. i guess this is why people become alcoholics.

i'm not as sad as this makes me sound. still high off habs hockey. i need to stop—

you know, whatever. and start on those other things. (i read in the skin of a lion and it made me wonder if ondaatje doesn't deserve richler/rushdie/seth status. we'll see.)

out.