The week has been spent finishing color-block canvases (a la Trading Spaces, per the photo to the left), eating Hershey's Kisses by the handfull, bike-riding, beer-drinking, sexual frustration, and babysitting an ever-present sense of waiting—waiting for something better, something bigger, an important event or milestone. No more waiting, I say.

Last night, I met up with John-Michael for dinner at La Casa Fiesta after an eleven-mile ride. Beer, tortilla-chips, and salsa. Who needs PowerBars? We discussed more sex — after an extensive phone conversation earlier in the week that followed his thesis interview — and I tried not to show my embarassment over being so loud (JM: "I want to be fucked, really hard, in a leather sling."), but our fellow diners seemed not to notice.

Dad invited me over for beer and barbeque this weekend, giving me the oriental rug we used to have in the living room of the old house as I was leaving. I hadn't seen it in about six years since moving to college, the divorce, the move, and it brought back memories of coming home from high school to do homework on the floor while watching Star Trek or Jerry Springer. I think there are still a few faded pizza stains on it. I keep having to do a double-take whenever I walk into my apartment now.

My new digital camera came in the mail today. I have to keep reminding myself not to fall into the materialist bliss of consumerism, that this new toy should not bring me as much joy as it does. I should be Catholic. I unpacked the box's contents and gingerly laid out a chorus line of plastic-smelling pieces and manuals, making sure not to miss any bit that might detract from my new-technology experience. The battery is now contentedly charging on my desktop. The thrill of potential photos hangs in the air.

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