I just deleted a shitty post about last night. It was all moaning and bragging. I went out with a couple of the gymroids against my better judgement. Too much happened, though, for me to write it again. I wrote it terribly the first time. I would do no better this time.
I don't want to go out anymore. I stay up too late for no reason at all. I have fun, but I have had a lot of that kind of fun in my life.
I took a picture of the sidewalk art in the park when Red and I strolled the night before after dinner. It was on the part of the park where the Christmas lights were hung. Day of the Dead? The entire sidewalk was covered with such things. Was it part of the Holiday thing? I couldn't figure it out.
I am sure I don't know what I want. That is, Faulkner said, the trouble with most people. They don't know what they want. C.C. says people only know what they don't want. I'm not sure I know that, either. And so. . . I am full of anxiety. That is not a good place to be.
I do know what I want, but it is impossible.
I should have stuck with the bad narrative of last night's exploits. But you would just think it is a story made up. It probably was.
Another perfect day outside. I should take a stroll.
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