I've been riding on the backs of antidepressants for so long that being free of them is disturbing. It doesn't feel like me. It feels like something is horribly wrong. And well, I guess it is. But it's sick to think that I'm addicted to a medicated mood.

Ate lunch at the Culture Slut. Charles Bukowski and a Diet Coke. Browsed through Skylight Books which, I've discovered, carries NO crappy mass market novels in its fiction section. Just Mishima and Holleran and Block and Hinton and Tanizaki and Gaiman and Neihart and Weil. And gorgeous small-press poetry.

Matt drove me back to my car which I had to leave at B&N overnight. I wanted to go shopping - have a bit of retail therapy - but I'm still in credit card debt from the last time I overshopped and the only thing that would make me happy right now is a Dior wallet or a pair of Gucci shoes. So I drove home instead trying to keep my head on and watched the NFL kickoff game and had potato bread for dinner.

It's cold in here. And I'm going to try to read without feeling alone.