Speak, I'm listening.

I am so tired. Never have I had so good of a break. Not working definitely helps me feel content with breaks. I used to work full time during winter, spring, and summer vacations, and now I'm not for the first time since high school. Ah. Lie back and relax. It's so nice. I finished The Watchmen and Suckerpunch, David Hernandez's debut. I'm moving on to Pattern Recognition and Steppenwolf, although Omar warns me that I might not like Steppenwolf as much as he's enjoyed it. He's learned enough about my taste through the many books I've disliked that have been his favorites. I'm sorry! So he probably knows. I don't like smug, know-it-all, mightier-than-thou characters, and I don't like long-winded, ranting, go nowhere stories. The second I can tolerate a lot more than the first. I've read books that people rave about and totally hated them for the simple first reason shown. I dislike real people who are like that as well, although I have a few friends that are very self assured, and for some reason I like them fine. I still get annoyed with their egos, and I still let them know, but somehow we're able to get along. There's one girl, though, who I just keep thinking about, and it annoys me every time I think of her. I should really let it go, but that whole idea of entitlement... it's work! It's work and rejection and lots of it. I have been fairly lucky for some reason, though, so maybe I'm not one to talk.

I have not written a word creatively. I've got these mental blueprints summersaulting around in my skull, but I've been feeling too relaxed to stress myself out. I've been doing pilotes and watching SVU and reading, and that's about it. I've barely left my house except to go down to Broadway and Redondo for Reno Room, the library, Aleah and Steffan (number one reason, of course), Open Books (which was appropriately closed), and other shops. I bought a red and black candle that smells like cloves. Or something similar to cloves. In Literary Criticism, someone wrote about artificial flavors and scents as being simulacra, and he said that over Thanksgiving break, his aunt had said that the pumpkin pie candle smelled more like pumpkin pie than actual pumpkin pie. It's quotes like this that spend a lifetime in memory. It's funny how something so obviously artificial can become so organic, stored away in memory right along with first ride on a bike, smell of jasmine on the bush by childhood home.

More dreams, but they're becoming more and more fragmented. Like they should be.