I’m flying somewhere between Houston and Orange County on my way to visit Doolies for her birthday. I’ve spent the last half-hour reading through old journal entries. You know what I discovered? I have a sick fascination with my own laziness. I spent pages and pages dwelling on my non-activity. I'd like to say to a narcissistic degree, but I’m not sure that’s true.

A lot has happened over the last year. I’ve successfully had a girlfriend. I’ve also written a pretty solid (for a first effort) short story. I’ve come to some terms with my personality and ego-defects—although we’re still in negotiations. I’m going to try to get back to my morning musings. Not that much good has come from it (as you can no doubt tell if you even glance through the previous pages). The only good—and it’s a big one—is that it forces me to rite. That’s something I’ve not done much lately.