ibd header photograph by James Reffell, June 2000

Wednesday, December 04, 2002
Dreamt last night about talking on the phone to Claire Futamase, a girl I knew in elementary school, and haven't spoken to since I was 12. Or 13. The night before's dreams were spent trying to convince people to help me put out fires in the GLBT Center at the Main Library. Heaven only knows what my subconscious is about, lately.

Have actually made it to the gym in the morning two days in a row. I haven't worked out much to speak of (20 minutes, and 10 of those are cardio), but somehow I'm terribly sore anyway, the kind of sore I associate with flu, not working out. Woe unto me for having quit going to the gym about a month before the wedding. I'm trying to make the gym trips kind of an extension of brushing my teeth, so that I don't feel like I can opt out of going. We'll see whether this works.

I got looked over quite hard by a long haired man (who my brain immediately dubbed razor-man because he looked like a meth addict - in a kind of rugged, my teeth haven't fallen out yet way) outside of what used to be Alfred Schilling's this morning while I was waiting for the F Market. I suppose he might have thought I was someone else, but he actually looked over his shoulder at me repeatedly as he waled down the street. And I really wasn't wearing ANYTHING of note: black shirt and coat, khaki pants, black loafers, no makeup. Anyway, it was unnerving.
12/4/2002 02:40:35 PM


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