Prof Klickberg-Tres Tard

I've done it--I left the house, after a long lunch, with my computer laptop briefcase in order to appear to my stepmom (and my dad when I come back in with it dutifully slung across my chest and right shoulder) that I actually have something of consequence to do. No, I've nothing to do except for waiting in my parked car at the Dana Point Harbor, writing this, "preparing" to listen to the rest of Disc Two of that Truman Capote-sounding faggot Dave Sedaris reading his stories, and possibly reading the Van Gogh Letters Vol. Three, all the time waiting for a phone call from the SC TIMES and from Jesse who needs me to do some stuff for our fledgling clothing line. Oy. I wonder if this is how Daniel Johnston ever felt. Although, he had a job at McDonald's, didn't he? That possibly kept his busy.

I am going to regret these days when I'm an old man. These days of no consequence, of no progress, or of no production. Day in and day out, I accomplish nothing, I see no one but the black-haired, doe-eyed barista at Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf round 4pm. I drive, I read, I watch a movie during my makeshift lunch. I wake up late, I take my time. This grows weary. I grow enervated with the Nothing of these tired, stilted days. Stale, stultified, and sickly. O, what am I doing with myself? This waiting for what? If only I had a friend, a confidant with whom to spend my endless hours... If only...

[I want this to go FASTER. This is not going fast enough. I want everyone to know who I am already; I want there to be NO QUESTION.]