We're going back to New York next month. She wants to see everything I saw, except maybe she wants the not so dirty version. I'm excited to see my friends again. I can't remember the last time I had so much fun, or felt so light, and alive. It'll be interesting to have her there with me. I'm sure that the days will be beautiful sharing all of the sights, and food. The nights on the other hand, ehh not so much beauty? I guess that's why we got a hotel, but I sure as hell ain't gonna spend a single night there. Oh, if only that were true. The guilt of leaving her always gets the best of me.

I love Canadian music. They're very hot shit in my Ipod right now. All the New Pornographers people, all the Broken Social Scene people, all of Spencer Krug's projects, Chromeo, and I'm forgetting others. Sum 41, they're great.

I've been real paranoid about walking outside lately because of all of the ice on the ground. The snow melts, and freezes over. Either that, or the snow mixes with rain, and the snow hardens up. I hate falling over. It's totally embarrassing, and painful. I think I worry more about the latter. It takes me forever to walk to the train now. I'm always late which is good because I'm in no hurry to get there.

I listened to Forum today, and I'm really behind on those podcasts. They had on Eric Maisel, a creativity coach from San Francisco, and he was promoting his book about writing in San Francisco. I fucking took that damn place for granted. It is a great community for writers to flourish. There are so many talented people to learn from, and discuss your work with. Even though SF is such a nurturing environment, because there are so many writers makes it hard to break out there. It fucked me up because the people that I thought were talented were better than me, but I shouldn't think that because everyone is different. No, what really messed me up was thinking that these great writers didn't give a fuck about my work, and though there are always exceptions, for the most part I think/thought that to be true. OK, really now, I didn't give enough of a fuck about my work OR the work of others, published, or just my classmates, that was my real problem. I don't know. I have a real difficult time expressing myself which is a horrible trait to have if you want to be involved in the arts.

Here Mr. Maisel, I'm abandoning my writing too early.

I should have never spoiled her so much. The root of all of my unhappiness in this relationship is my fault. I let her have her way all the time, and to take it from her now would cause some superfluous deep exhaling. It just really hurts me most of all because she takes me for granted, and doesn't know I exist(sometimes). These ideas come from something that happened recently. I was sharing the couch with her while watching Grey's Anatomy. After the show we both get up to use the bathroom, but I let her go first. I then prepare the sink to wash dishes while I wait for her to use the bathroom. After she goes, I go. I come back to take my spot on the couch, and she is there with her laptop taking up all of the couch. She wants to watch some Oprah special about Oscar winning actors/actresses interview each other. I couldn't give a shit about this, and all I want to do is fucking lay down. So I go lay down in bed, and listen to George Clooney and Julia Roberts gab about how great Brad Pitt is or whatever. I end up falling asleep, and an hour later she wakes me up, and says, "Oh, I didn't know where you were." Maybe that doesn't bother anyone, but it does bother me. If I don't see her for an hour, and she doesn't tell me where she is, I think most of the time I would go looking for her. I probably wouldn't wait an hour.

Maybe I'm just too fucking neurotic or something. Maybe I'm just finding causes. It doesn't really sound like she's doing anything wrong, but I think I just want more than this. I want to be selfish. I want to do watch wrestling, or X-Play, or play Wii without fucking headphones. I can't do any of these things because it "bothers" her. Psh, and she always wonders why I stay up late at night. It's because I need my daily video game fix, and they replay X-Play at 3am.

I need to write here everyday like this. Keep it short, but do it everyday. I'll see how long I can keep it up.

I don't mean to come to you only whenever I'm feeling down. I always tell myself to make an effort to blog when I am in better spirits, but just the thought of that scares me away. It wouldn't sound interesting, at least it doesn't sound interesting in my head. There wouldn't be anything to say, nothing to have an opinion about.

I feel trapped inside this apartment. Unable to really do whatever, whenever I want. Dare I say, it's almost worst than being in California. Everything has to be just right, not too loud, not to crazy. Can't just go crazy like Prince says, no sir. We will keep the wildin' out to a minimum.

I don't know. One day I couldn't be more in love, the next day I couldn't feel more dead. Maybe not dead. I shouldn't say that. It's over dramatic, and a sign of my ever weakening vocabulary. I don't feel like anything. There is nothing that I can hold onto. I try, and try to do things, buy stuff, all with the idea that I can distract myself enough to avoid confronting any of my true problems.