Chatting with friends makes me lament my lack of ambition. I need to write and cook more -- to suck the incomparable milk of life from the pap!

I'm sitting here, soggy with drink. I'm almost done with a bottle of Francis Coppola Black Label Claret. It's a tasty $13 bottle of red wine. I'm typing this on a new computer. I made a batch of bread dough with my new Kitchenaid mixer. Tax refunds are bringers of materialistic joy.

If only I were more ambitious and more focused. I become content too easily. I was restless and poetic in college. I was also more turbulent and moody. I want to drive around and write about it. Who will pay me to do it? I work cheap.

Anyone?

English is a wonderful language. A poet's language. However, it has yet to invent a word which encompasses my laziness. I haven't blogged in almost a year. My friend Charlotte is the antithesis, with her blogs (only one of which is steelcube.blogspot.com) She writes voraciously, preventing the life of a unique, epicurean lesbian from slipping unsung into the mists of antiquity.