Now I rhyme: When I was a seed and I sang like the birds I knew all the songs but did not know the words.

Today was a beautiful Spring day. It must be April or something. I drove back to Staunton in the Dodge Dart after first robbing $50 from the bank. I'm giddy and drifting into melodrama. I get to do that too.

I sleep like a baby in the bunk of my Shaque, even in the middle of the day. There are no thumping screaming Elizabeths outside my door and there are no goths wanting me to buy some bourbon and come out to play.

I fixed all the little troubles with the homeplace. A 40 year old lightswitch needed replacing, and my Dad's greasy grey hair needed cutting. He's not as disgusting as Walter Miller's grandpa, but I'm always fascinated in a voyeuristic way by the way a 73 year old head is different from and similar to my own.

My mother made a delicious pasta/bean/hamburger chili dish for dinner, and I ate so much I became bloated. Before leaving to return to Charlottesville, I told my folks the scary truth about Mad Cow Disease. They listen to and read a lot of news from several different sources, but both had just assumed Mad Cow Disease wasn't an American problem or even much of a British one. That's exactly the reaction that the government and the beef industry had worked so hard to cultivate. If my parents aren't concerned, then who is? They were clearly shaken by my explanation of prion diseases, though. I sincerely doubt they will be buying any more commerical beef in the future.

As my Dart went by Hot Tomatoes on University Avenue on the Corner, I saw Elizabeth seated with Cecelia the Brazilian Girl and Karen the German Girl. The latter two came running and jumped in while some punks (dismissed again by Cecelia as "posers") in front of Plan 9 hollered insults. One called me a "fag." Cecelia suggested that he suck my dick then. He claimed he already had.

I still felt bloated from my homecooked meal, and so lay around in my bed with the two girls while they tried to coax some life into me. They wanted to go to the Horrid Crash Pad, see Raphæl play at the Orbit Billiard Parlour and do other little fun things. I thought instead that I should take my pre-work nap. They were very disappointed, but what could they do?

As I napped they came and knocked on my door several times. Am I really so necessary that they should humiliate themselves so? Who am I to them? I really don't know.

I think the better journals address issues that are common to the human condition without repeatedly raking over the same tired subject matter. The concept of "life is a curse" and "I love those whom I know" are subjects that weary me. I'd rather hear people addressing the slightly more subtle issues that crop up in their lives. Here are some examples:

• What makes an old friend drift away over time?
• What are the social risks involved in pursuing a career goal?
• What do you really fear when a group of teenagers is in front of your house smoking cigarettes and shouting and laughing at each other?
• Did you pass a hitch-hiker today and feel a pang of guilt? Did you wonder about his life story?
• Did you smile at a child and fear the parents would think you a pedophile?
• Were you cold to an attractive person in whom you are interested sexually simply because you assumed you were unworthy?
• Did an animal do something today that made you consider him human for an instant? Did a fellow human do something today that reminded you of our animalness? Has anyone ever transcended the need to go to the bathroom?

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