May 14.

I've been sick, laying on dan's couch, reading Charles Bukowski all day. This virus or whatever it is hit me in the face practically overnight. His living room window faces the woods, and it's windy out, so it sounds really nice. It's dead silent in here; I've been the only one here for a few hours. Dan's at health services, getting both of us medicine. He's my best friend.

This Bukowski book is the Post Office. It's really funny at parts. I'm enjoying it; I'm almost done. When I read books like this, where the main character is a guy who checks out every woman and lives and sleeps with dozens of random people with no thought about it at all, it just makes me wonder if there is anyone in this world who really has this personality. Like in The Stranger by Camus, same thing. I don't know if I believe that anybody could be so apathetic. In the Post Office, at one part, he's living with a woman and she just had their baby, and she's reading the paper and he says "Are you moving out?" and she says "yea" and he says "Lets go look for a place" so they do and she takes the kid and he gets the cat and that's all. It's like the millionth time that's happened in the story. Does this really happen?

I'm leaving Purchase tomorrow, after Dan's graduation, and with that I'll never see many acquaintances again, and it'll be normal. I don't think it's normal. I'm going back home and will be spending time with my group of friends, maybe working a terrible job selling beer on a golf course, and continuing to be awkward. Hopefully I will be painting, but does that give me money? No, and now that I have my own house I will have to buy food and everything will be difficult. Then again it's never not difficult.