2003-01-22 - 1:22 a.m.

I'bm sickk.

I'm gonna blow a vacation day tomorrow, but that's OK.

I originally planned to just relax, no laundry to do, in an almost entirely clean apartment, assuringly unreasonable to venture too far from the Cosby Brownstone via dauntingly dangerously frigid wind chill (and being sick), which would conveniently make most little household projects (like hanging pictures) impossible due to lack of supplies--yes, my neighborhood can be an outpost at times.

I was warmly projecting hours of boredom and perhaps a shot of isolation.

But now I'm realizing that, as I won't be bedridden (tomorrow off is 'cause I don't wanna get sicker--I could go to work if need be, but need won't be), there's actually about twenty to thirty little projects I can do--low priorities on the big list, and that makes me kinda happy.

I'm weird that way. Freakishly odd verisimilitude was even important to me when I was a kid--I'd ask for Christmas presents I didn't truly truly truly want, presents I just kinda figured would be nice, just to flush out Tiny Masochist�s collection of things.

I'll probably half-assedly accomplish two or three little tasks before 5:00 tomorrow. Maybe clean out my closet--which isn't dirty and in fact is quite organized. Maybe finally finish up the two Christmas mix CDs for my parents. Do some redundant sweeping, some dishes, maybe handwash delicates and hang 'em to dry, or even venture to the dry-cleaners down the street and see if they alter pant legs. Clear off the desk. Throw away old ATM receipts.

By the time the Roommate gets home, I'll probably be regretting the fact that I didn't have the time to play some guitar, or write an e-mail to a friend, or to get more little things accomplished.

It's amazing. It's amazing how much time I spend at the Big Company, and it really bothers me that there are kids my age just hanging out drinking beer--there's no justice. Yes, there�s a modicum of jealousy going on here, but I�m more pissed at the lack of consistency--everyone should have a Catch-22 noose--most of us wanna enjoy our time, which requires money, which requires a job, which ultimately decreases the amount of time we can enjoy. I�m a good kid, did well in school, I vote, I don�t do bad drugs, I read books, I�m polite, but I still gotta deal with the Sisyphusean task of trying to enjoy my youth. I dunno--I gotta deal with it, everyone should have to.

Yeah, the road to hell is paved with the skulls of the whiners, but, yeah, it is amazing that I sleep maybe six or seven hours a day, take an hour to get ready--wake up, shower, dress, and then work at least eight, factor in an hour back and forth for transportation, and that leaves me really just six hours a day to do me things.

And I don't mind so much--I'm happy. I really am. I mean it.

I like my little beer and TV and computer time. I'd like to do more songwriting, but I got that little girl (apparently with excellent hearing) in the apartment below.

I like to listen to music on my headphones (Marvin Pontiac right now, by the way), and I like to hang out with the Roommate.

It would be fun to maybe go out more, but I always seem to be low on cash.

But I usually got enough cash on hand to do a couple of things a week, and I like that too.

I like the little things I can do.

So sometimes, every now and then, I get the big Christmas gift--the knock your socks off weekend, the major realization, the kickass party that makes me wake up happy and not know why three days later, the hope when I see snow, or when I realize that a band had me in mind when they wrote a song.

My ma driving me from the folk�s house to my Allston pad, on my birthday, which happens to be July 4th, listening to the Pops live from the car�s tinny speakers, and making her pull over �cause I noticed that the pond had a perfect view of the fireworks over the Hatch Shell, exploding in the July sky and reflecting in the July pond, a small crowd with us, just me and my ma.

Those moments where I can clearly feel like that ponytailed, bumbling, pretentious freak that honestly thought that each moment of his life would make for an interesting passage in a really good book or film (he couldn't decide).

But usually, it's pride in four really well hung record album frames (and one really well placed and highly expectant wall tack), or just having washed all the dishes or all my laundry, or (and this one really gets me), the way a hardwood floor smells after thoroughly washed with Murphy's Oil Soap, or a Belle and Sebastian, or Aimee Mann, or They Might be Giants, or Mary Lou Lord, or Elliott Smith song that I just throw on like an old pair of jeans when I don't care what I look like, but that sometimes reverently and tearfully become the old pair of jeans I could never throw away, ever, or waking up and drinking a huge ice-coffee from my Pedro Martinez--Man or Machine? cup that Jimmy Pants gave me, or the relief and odd and addictive surge of adult pride after having gone to the dentist for the first time in maybe six years.

Getting 1943 when I could have asked for a cooler video game. (Why the Japanese would make an action shooter about WWII airplane raids is part of the reason I love Japan so much).

Or tomorrow, looking forward to accomplishing small tasks--any task will do.

I�ll be happy and disappointed when I�m done, but that�s part of the deal. And then I�ll realize that I forgot that I wanted to use some of that sick day time reading the Coach�s top 100 albums. And then I�ll just be disappointed.

God, I wish I could just go back and relive every happy moment right now. Why can�t we do that whenever we want to? I mean, really?

Why I can�t I go back and relive Allston and I went out drunk for smokes and ran into a drunk Steve and took him back home and played CDs for him and then busted out the Seagull and played my own songs for him (drunkenly), and listened to his (drunkenly)--tradeoff. Why does thinking about that night make me feel sad when it made me so happy at the time?