Happiness Is A New Notebook

August came and went like a damn car wreck, rolling straight into September and threatening October. My months are already planned out. Freedom? Fuck it. I got a job.

I have my nice, new notebook with over a hundred blank pages in it. There's dividers in it, five of them, and it's college ruled. I love these notebooks. I wish I was going to scribble moronic short stories or dopey song lyrics into it - and perhaps I will - but for the most work it's going to represent my work life.

I started the Olds the other day. Damn it was old. History and burnt oil and gasoline and a touch of forgotteness filled its cabin. I love that car. There's nothing right about it. Nothing. I drove it less than a quarter of a mile and it is one of the few things I've done for myself lately that made me incredibly happy. For those few moments I forgot about looking down the barrel of the various guns bearing down on me and worried more about keeping it between the lines. The power windows and seats are fucked; the interior has been the victim of wet weather and rodents; the paint has been abused by the sun and the rain. But despite all of its shortcomings, in spite of the mold and the mildew, this damn thing makes me happy. It reminds me I have much more to happy about.

Now just to remember that.