Go fuck yourself, 2007.

I'm going to try to avoid making any runaway train (never goin' back) metaphors, since I am apt to do so unconsciously, but I would like to say that if one happened to come by right now and bash in my face, it'd be alright by me. And I'm also going to try to be somewhat humorous, since the first draft was all, "Oh my God, life sucks so hard right now. Please have some empathy for me blah blah blah." And none of us want that shit.

I've been trying to accentuate the positive and all that jazz lately, but it seems that everything good just so happens to be negated by something a little bit shittier. For example, my next two weeks are three-day work weeks, yay! Oh, but I get to go home. I mean, great, I get to spend six days without worrying about buying food and fixing it for myself, but it will also involve sitting around and being depressed with the rest of my family. Well, balls. I'm not particularly looking forward to that, and I know it's a horrible thing to say and I feel really, really shitty about it, but it's the way I feel and I can't help it, and sometimes I just want to be a brat and be an asshole. I'm so self-aware of my selfishness, that I'm on the fence about if I actually am being selfish or just pretending I am. I don't know.

Because I was depressed pretty much all weekend (except when I discovered that Wii bowling adds at least fifty points to your score, which was great for me until I realized that everyone else was already better than me and their scores were up fifty points, too), I went to buy shit I didn't need. I went to a used book store and got a good deal on a bunch of books I'll never read (The Mansions of Virginia: 1706-1776 by Thomas Tileston Waterman), and then I went to Best Buy. I was going to buy a digital voice recorder for my trip home so I could interview my grandfather and get him to tell me some of his stories. He's got a lot of them. He almost got into a fight with Henry Fonda in a bar, for Christ's sake. That's worth recording. I also wanted him to tell me that cute story about how we're connected to John Wilkes Booth and the Lincoln conspirators. B-U-T I shouldn't spend money on an electronic device that I probably won't ever use again (unless Christina and I actually decide to quit our jobs and drive around the South to prepare for our book that we planned to write a few weeks ago). I mean, being twenty-three means disposable income and credit card debt, but I don't have that much income to throw out, and my mother brought me up to be shameful of using credit cards. (And I thought Episcopalians weren't supposed to have any guilt.)

I did end up going to Target and bought bath towels (whoop, whoop) and poster frames, which I "needed" so that I could avoid being too collegiate and having to affix my nice posters (meaning, not my beat-up Run Lola Run poster) to my walls.

And here's another thing that's bothering me: I finally watched Casablanca. And I thought it was boring. Did you hear that world? I didn't like Casablanca, and you can go suck a D.

AND THIS: Chris Martin actually said that Coldplay's next album will include a song that everyone should hear before they die. I scanned the page several times to see if it was actually an article from The Onion. "I can't tell you about it, but it's basically genius," he says. Right. And my girlfriend is totally real, she just lives in Canada and is working on getting a Visa so she can move down here. Really. I swear. Go fuck yourself, Chris Martin.

Sorry, I digress. We're supposed to be talking about me here.

I think I just hate this year. I mean, January was great, but then February came and fucked it all up, and now it's March but I feel like I've still got a hangover from last month. The weather isn't helping; the temperature is going up to the mid-forties and then spiking back down to the twenties, as if God is saying, "Ha ha!! Suck it, Chicago!" I mean, yeah, it's going to be in the sixties over the weekend in Montross, but I don't get to enjoy it by walking to a bar with only one layer on like I would here.

I've been stuck here for about an hour, so I guess that's my cue to end this post. (God, I feel like I'm writing an email or something.) I'm going to listen to Born to Run now and try to feel better about things. (And the one thing I'll get out of it is: At least I don't live in New Jersey!)