Stephen Dixon comes next, then McSweeny's 8 and 5. That's my reading list. I have a few others on it, but that's in the near future.

Oh yeah, I have to read Dante's Inferno and Purgatorio or something to that effect for one of my classes, but I don't consider school reading real literature. Ever since I had to read St. Augustine and I realized what a fucking inane twat he was, I haven't been into reading for that class, even though I do have good expectations for Dante. But I put all that reading into my homework time, so it isn't real reading.

Fucking boring entry.

Scott hasn't talked to me since then. I haven't exactly tried to get in touch with him, but still, I want him to want to get in touch. We left on something of a high string. It was tense. I don't know if he cares to dispell that effect, but I'd certainly appreciate some normal interaction with him. Especially since I am considering coming home for Thanksgiving and my birthday, and he plays a crucial role in whether I decide to or not. If things are fucked with him, I don't want to be even two area codes away. I want to be the 3500 miles that I've taken away from him.

Fuck it. My tattoo hurts it feels so good. It's a really big integral symbol. Well, it's like five or six inches on my forearm, and that's big if you ask me. It's fucking amazing. It's hot and beautiful, and it means something to me, which my previous tattoo meant nothing. I feel good about it. Even though some people (Scott) tried to make me feel stupid for it. I love it, and he can't take that from me. And it's not just a spur of the moment stupid shit tattoo that so many stupid fucks get; I've been thinking about this since I knew what a fucking integral symbol was: the sum of an infinite number of infinitely small things that add up to something. It's beauty. It's math. I don't give a fuck. Make fun of me. Fuck yourself.

I'm feeling crazy. Sleep deprivation and school have made me nuts. I'm angry, and I don't know who with. Myself? Maybe. Probably. But fuck off.