Goddamit. Everything is better if I leave it alone.

Things could be worse, but that doesn't prevent them from being fucked now.

Fuck everything.

You know how a boxer or someone is supposed to jump right up after being knocked down, is supposed to steel himself and go back and get into it? I just wanna lay there, not get up, just make it all go away.

I am so fucked. I'm making a normal life a problem. Just fuck it all. I really don't care, not about me, not about my shit. It's all shit in my life, and I just don't want it any more.

I offer my apologies. I have little to say and don't feel much like much of anything. Maybe later.

I guess things are back to normal. My ribs sitll hurt, and my head does, too, but I'm getting better I guess. More importantly, someone else's hospital visit was successful beyond my wildest expectations. It's so good to see people happy and recovering quickly.

I'm learning about buses, but mostly because of necessity. They go through many areas of town, distinguished mostly by the shops that appear alongside the roads. Huge sections of strip malls featuring the same stores everyone has everwhere in the world (Why in the world would anyone shop at them?), then in priveledged areas stores which provide nothing but services or things desired by those higher up the Maslow Hierarchy of Needs. No chains there (except Starbucks), though many of the names are familiar.

I'm thinking fifty years old is a good milestone. By now enough things have changed that the world I knew is no longer in existence. People are basically the same (I don't think we've changed all that much in the last ten thousand years), but they want different things now. That's good, that's progress, but the world that shows me isn't one I feel comfortable in.

The other day I counted four out of ten drivers talking on phones. I wonder what's so important in their lives. I saw the majority of the people on the bus and outside walking listening to iPods or Walkmen. I guess their own lives and wants are more important than the outside world, and I'm not sure if I'm jealous or saddened by that. I still don't see the sense in shutting yourself inside your wants, isolating yourself like that. I suppose it's the same reason I like convertibles.

Right now I have hopes. No information, though, and everything is out of my hands.

Leo is now behind me.

This car carried me and many of friends places. Some people liked him, others wished he had a top or that it was up.

I'm not sure non-ragtop people ever understand convertibles, and I can't explain why I like them so. They're noisy, dirty, windy, and everyone feels it's okay to ask you questions or try and talk to you.

Still. I wish I still had my car. I wish lots of things. As they say, wish in one hand, shit in the other, and see which fills up first.

I've done a little today. Very little. And hardly any of it important.

I *did* file the DMV paper, but have avoided all afternoon calling the place where my car is stored, arranging for a wrecking yard to take the damn thing, or renting a car so I can go to the wrecking yard and get the valuable stuff out of the car.

I need to do that. I just won't face reality or facts.

I wish I was a better person about getting things done, or that I had a Personal Asst to do things for me.

I hate myself, but got all my laundry done. Little things like that I can do. Big things, important things, I shirk or avoid.

Yesterday was my first full day after my accident when I was back home. Yesterday, after my move, I was sullen and didn't care too much what happened to me, ever.

Today, so far, not that bad. I'm not excited or hopeful, I'm going through the motions of being alive, of getting things done, but I miss everything except some sort of intellectual involvement with my life. There's hardly any spark, I don't care much if my ribs hurt or not, am not fired up about anything.

Not bad, but not good, either.

I'm waiting to see how all the money stuff works out, how much I owe everyone, how much I have. I hate having my life defined by money, but there are times when that's how everyone sees me. I guess it's not so much what I am, but what I can furnish that determines my worth.

The harsh realities of my fucking up are voerwhelming the tenderness I remember and seek. I'm unsure if it's better to have no hopes or to learn to understand and accept that they often won't be met. My guess is I would do well in the final third of my life to accept rejection graciously, to not be bowed by things not going my way, but to act as normal people do, shrug it off, dust myself off, and smile into the future.

I just can't see me doing that.