Comb your hair � � � Saturday, Oct. 18, 2003 * 00:15

God.

All of this Pink Floyd is making me fucking emotional and mellow. I miss John. I keep trying to write him letters at work, but every time I finish writing "Dear John, How are you?" with my blue pencil, someone bothers me or I have to pee or my foot falls asleep or Brad Tibbils magically appears. So I've got about 4 sheets of paper that say "Dear John, How are you?" I also have Brad Tibbils, which probably makes no sense to you, unless you went to my high school.

Aren't the chances of his working with me sort of strange - and frankly, frightening? I don't have anything against the guy. However, his emergence has perturbed me.

I can just see him searching for his name on the internet and coming here.

Hi, Brad Tibbils.

It's inevitable.

---

Justin is out playing spades with some math nerds. So, I'm all alone here, sitting in the dark with my pumpkin candles burning, listening to Pink Floyd. While my cats sit on the floor next to me and bathe themselves. They've been bathing for several hours now. I wonder if their obsessive compulsive behavior is my fault.

Tomorrow, Justin is travelling to Princeton with the math nerds, where he will stay over at his professor's house and take tours of a bunch of stuffy math buildings and, no doubt, discuss math problems in stuffy rooms with people who need to comb their hair.

This is just about the most boring thing I can imagine.

If John were here, he would probably be going too. Somehow, John doesn't really fit in with all of the other math dweebs that he and Justin know. In terms of outward appearance, anyhow.

Then again, he does have a tattoo of pi on his arm.

Goodnight.