it appears that when you've got a whole day off to get stuff done, nothing gets done.

a case in point: i woke up this morning and said to myself, "today i'm going to clean this entire bedroom."

(actually, i woke up this morning and said, "why the fuck do i hear joseph eddy's voice in my living room saying 'here, kitty kitty?'")

anyway, i started cleaning with a vengence, found all sorts of things i thought i had lost, listened to a few forgotten mix cd's, and come around three o clock i looked around and still saw a hundred mateless socks and two hundred half-read books and a pile of summer clothing i still hadn't put away, and my will just gave out.

the way i see it is this: on my death bed, when i'm thinking over my life, the people i adored and the places i tarried, am i really going to say,
"i wish i had done more housework!"

i don't think so.

so i gingerly plopped down in front of the computer and started fiddling around with jayc's blogs.

there i sat until 7 pm, at which time i dashed out to keep my date with Hank, the old guy with a phd in physics who writes books about butterflies, and who occasionally pops up in the gym to work out his varicose veins while i'm in there running and preventing my deathbed musings from turning into a "i wish i had worked out more!" lament.

and now the day is almost over, and also my thanksgiving holiday, and i can't stop thinking about how nice it was that i enjoyed myself today...

so now it appears that even when you don't get anything done, it's still a good day to think about living.