My bathroom cabinet came complete with words of encouragement.  I like to think that this tender missive was posted inside the medicine cabinet by my apartment’s former resident, Jeff Hoar, but Hoar was a chain smoker who had his bed in the kitchen.  I don’t think that he put much stock in inspiration.

Despite what the bathroom tells me, I don’t always feel beautiful.  Mantras like that only help to reinforce what you’re already feeling.  If you aren’t feeling it, the tendency is to tell that silver sticker to shut the fuck up.

At least the apartment has been prettied up.  Although he alleges to detest its landscape, its climate, and its people, my chum Daniel has decided to move to Chicago.  He arrived on Friday, just in time to assist me in erasing a tiny bit more of Hoar’s legacy.  No longer are my walls a color I thought of as nicotine dingy. The living room is a serene blue, the kitchen is a cheery (if perhaps overly vivid) yellow and the bathroom is a hue that is a little bit reminiscent of self tanner.  The bathroom color is certainly not a home run.  It reminds me somewhat of my parents’ bedroom circa 1989, which isn’t necessarily a good thing. Nonetheless, improvements have been made.

There is the definite chill of fall in the air as I sit in bed shoveling cheesecake into my gullet at 11pm on Sunday night.  A person definitely should not eat cheesecake at 11pm, and probably should not eat cheesecake in bed.  But, man, I am hungry!  I have entered a phase of constant ravenousness that I haven’t experienced since Winter 2004, otherwise known as that time I got really fat.