I've thought of the recent summer as Bukowski without inspiration, which pretty much degenerates to alcoholism. As it is 5:30 and I'm at my computer about to light a fag, and not really enjoying things, I'd say it's Bukowski without literary credit or talent, and life spent idly and frivolously when it could be taken advantage of so much more. Is it the booze, the ennui, the heat? Is it the fucking town? Is it the threat of the future?

I awoke today at 12:30, made frappe, prepared tea in the sun, ate toast, packed a banana and headed off to class. Class was torturously long, and afterword I went to busey bank and opened an account. Then to Erich's to mooch food and see if he was up for the pool. Then to the pool without Erich because he wasn't up. The pool was great because the humidity was miserable and I got a lot of reading done - Atlas Shrugged is the current project. Then home where I felt incredibly knackered. I called Efi and sorted some things out and felt great that I called her, then to Guido's for dinner with Tommy, James, Ben, and Sejiro. Then home and to Ben's, then to the liquer store to get a couple twelve packs - Red Stripe and Michelob. We watched 'How High' at Ben's and Tommy and Sejiro trickled out. Then home where James and I frantically serched for the weed I lost, then gave up and drank whiskey and played Halo on XBOX. James and I watched some TV and now I'm here, blogging in the early morn.