Never before has being a housewife or vagabond looked so good. If only I had learned to play Lu (that’s what I call my guitar, it’s short for Lucinda), so I could busk for change in all the cities I would travel to.

I’m in that wanting to curl up in a fetal position and cry phase of the back-to-work depression. Everything seems and feels so pointless. It will probably pass, but for now it sucks ass.

In an effort to cheer myself up, I am listening to nothing but Paul Westerberg today — except for “Suicaine Gratifaction.” That one’s too painful to listen to when you’re standing on the bridge. Even on a good day, I’m reading to shove my head in an oven after listening to Suicaine.

So I’ve started out with the bootleg of the first night at the Guthrie back in 2002. It makes me happy, because it was the first time I ever got to witness St. Paul live and in person. I still get a little choked up when that version of “I Will Dare” comes on Kathleen Turner Overdrive remembering how overcome with emotion I was hearing it live.

See, I’m starting to feel better already and I’ve only made it to song three (“Mr. Rabbit” it makes me laugh when Paul sings “suck my dick” because I am a distant relative of Beavis).

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i’m in serious need of a sugar daddy. a patron of the arts, someone who wants to support a woman who would be perfectly happy writing and writing and writing at home in her underpants while listening to NPR. i mean, really, who wouldn’t want to spend their money on something like that?

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the only thing making this remotely enjoyable is a caramel mocha. see john ran to caribou and for that i love him.

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ok, you’re right. i’d get bored out of my skull. but i’d still like to try it for a month or so, just to make sure.

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