11:58:05 a.m.

Yesterday I was filled with despair, but today it’s only a wistful sense of futility—that’s got to be some kind of progress, right? Maybe it’s because the pitcher in Starbucks had exactly enough half-and-half to fix my brew the way I like it, or maybe I just had a bad case of the black ass yesterday. It doesn’t matter—nothing’s changed. I’m not going to do anything to “improve” myself, I know that much, because I’ve looked at all the options and they all disgust me. I’m not going to take dance lessons or audit any classes in animal husbandry or join Toastmasters to “open up” some new side of myself. There aren’t any sides, just like there aren’t going to be any romantic slow-mo runs to the dry cleaner where “she” is picking her clothes up, no winning lottery tickets, no being discovered by a benevolent billionaire. Maybe the old man’s right, maybe I should set my sights on some lonely old bag, just take her for every cent she’s got and skip off to Europe. I bet France would feel pretty good on money like that. Buy some threads and visit the goddam castles of Spain, or I could charm my way into some social circle, then beat ’em out of whatever dough I can get and bring that scene crashing down, too. Yeah, that sounds just about right. Let’s go—