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2003-11-09 | 4:24 p.m.

I am working hard (ok, that's bullshit, but I'm working) on an article for Truant, due in the morning, but somehow I managed to find the perfect Christmas present for Frank.

Just multi-tasking, that's all.

P.S.: Stephen, if you happen to read this any time in the next couple-few hours, feel free to call with encouragement. Actually, you could call even without encouragement. Just tell me what to write.

P.P.S.: Mike, if you come across this, please know that I have been meaning to call you forever and I just haven't because I ... am a big stinker. I'm sorry. I love you! I was gonna call you on your birthday, and I was so excited because it wasn't going to be lated, and then somebody pointed out that it was already the second. So then I felt like a big dumbhead and didn't call. Which is bad, I know.

It's times like these that I wish I had a cigarette. Not just one, a whole pack. But if I smoked it, I would get sick, because I haven't smoked in almost a decade. It's the memory I'm after, the satiety, the happy humming clarity, the feeling of being in the compositional zone. Instead I eat chocolate, which makes me sleepy after a while.

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