travelling miles

I read an essay by Rick Moody about the word "cool" last night that was in the Best American Essays 2004. It was a terrible essay in every imaginable way and surely, the only way it gained inclusion is because it was by Rick Moody and it will help sell some copies of the otherwise unsexy anthology. Anyways, in it, he talks about Miles Davis a lot and it is probably for that reason that I am listening to him right now and that is a good thing, because really if I was listening to anything with rage right now, anything with teeth, anything of the rock variety, my blood pressure would rise too much, and there would be a rambling entry ahead of you, much like the one I composed last night. Instead, I am going to curl up in my bed, masturbate, and maybe read, but probably won't once I masturbate.

And I will just touch on this one topic before I head off to sleep because something is going on with it lately. I saw this boy at a stupid club on Saturday night. And man, I cannot get him out of my head. I am not sure if it was that or the stress of late since they both emerged around the same time, but God, I have been so easily turned on these past days and find myself masturbating to sleep, find myself half awake in the early hours mastubating to a dream I am just coming out of. I was so mad walking to work this morning just thinking about my landlord, and suddenly I get sidetracked by thoughts of masturbating. And it clicked that stress = horniness. That because of this tension, I look for release, and am masturbating all the time, or thinking about it all the time. It's a method of escape. I used to take masturbation breaks when I had to write papers. And that is the only reason I can be happy about this stress in my life, that it is giving me a sex drive. I was sitting in Union Square smoking a cigarrette this afternoon. My jeans stretched across my legs just so when I shifted my leg and I sighed with pleasure, wishing I was home.

I read a short story by Gary Lutz in the Anchor Book of New American Short Stories last night that was really good, was different, intelligent, and the sort of stuff I am planning on reaching for, that I want to see from fiction. I need to get his book and find out if all his stuff is good.

Thursday evening at 11:15, we are meeting with our landlord and her granddaughter.

People asked me for advice tonight and I was surprised that people were mildly respectful and even complimenting. One of these persons told me I should be an actor. I laughed. The other I talked to about Miles Davis.

I was bitching very loudly about how little I made an hour to Jesse after I found out that he made nine an hour and I only make eight twenty-seven even though we started at the exact same time and both have about the same work ethic. Later, my manager who heard this talk asked me how much I made and I told him, and he said that he would talk to someone, that I worked hard and have been there a long time. Which is nice that he understood this was outrageous. I used to not care about getting paid more because I kept telling myself that I was going to get a new job soon so I should not pressure for a raise. I am not sure I will actually get a raise right now because our union is negotiating a new contract with those stingy fuckers who own the store, and the owners are trying to crush our morale. Remember, I was only going to talk about one thing, going to do one thing. Stress, this, equals that.