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2005-08-09 - 8:06 a.m.

I like a girl and she was born around the time the Challenger blew up. She knows the Singles soundtrack because it was on her friend's iPod and she's read Lolita and I haven't. She goes to an Ivy League school. She can play piano, draw, paint, read twice as fast as me, sing, cook, and she looks better than she should, given that she was born around the time the Challenger blew up. And I can't believe this happened, but I'm going to miss her when she leaves in three weeks. This was not in the plan.

She liked all the songs and lines of dialogue she was supposed to like in Good Will Hunting last night and even called Minnie Driver "tarded." We enjoy each other's company and we laugh a lot. She has hair so curly it winds itself up into these cylindrical curls in the back the thickness of pencils.

I had my third interview yesterday. Real job interviews, with coffee and business casual and all that. My biggest fear is not that I can't do whatever it is they ask me to do, or that I won't have enough time for the things I want to do. I'm most afraid I'll become boring. And I hate this feeling. I've worked regular jobs and I know how tired they make me, how much I think about these jobs when I come home, how early I go to bed because getting up at 7:51 just isn't good for my sleeping pattern. I hope I still have something to talk about. Maybe I'll talk about all the money I'll be making. It's true the thought of $20 an hour editing military de-chemicalization documents is appealing and it's also true that one of the others pays almost two-thirds more what my last one pre-grad school paid. And I wanted to teach college. Phoo, Deans and Provosts of America.

I had a long talk with my brother three nights ago. The two things happened that had to happen for the conversation to get off the ground: he was loaded and he started it. So we talked about his scene and I think it helped. He's worried about debt and doesn't know how to explain his resume hole and wants to do sales. I told him I thought he could be the best salesman in the city. And it's true, he could be. He can talk to people: all kinds.

My dad, on Friday, had the irradiated pellets implanted into his prostate. The doctor says everything went well. He's feeling good. He'll know more in three months, when he is tested again. I wish I could do something more directly.

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