This is a lot of white pages, so empty and intimidating. It also the approximate weight of a fat toddler, proving once again that I am a glutton for needless punishment. I don't know why I bought it. I don't know why I'm writing in it. I should be reading Decline & Fall, for tomorrow's exam. I don't know why no one told me that Evelyn Waugh was funny. I mean, really funny. I was completely surprised, though not half as surprised as the rest of the class, who definitely didn't know he was a man. Here's some truth: I haven't loved this class (20th Century British Novel). The first half was so great. And the second half was . . . Virginia Woolf. I hate Mrs Dalloway. I wanted Clarissa to poop on her dinner table. Not that I necessarily expected closeted early 20th century upper class English lesbians to be awesomely weird and interesting but seriously . . . Anyway, I haven't studied at all, but I'm probably going to do fine on the exam because Professor C. has given me an A on everything I've turned in so far because I'm a top quality bullshit artist and most of the rest of my classmates are illiterate boobs who still think modernism is a thing with robots. Gotta love a second rate state school for its ability to make unapologetic slackers look like intellectual titans.
Anyway, I bought this thing because I went to Borders to buy a second copy of the afore-mentioned Waugh novel because I left mine somewhere in Chapel Hill and My Roommate Who Hates Me (henceforth known as MRWHM) has refused to let me borrow her likewise unread copy for some incomprehensible reason. It's the holidays and the spirit of Christmas and capitalism compels me to go out and spend my non-existent income on a bunch of bullshit I don't need because of my gross American materialism and my wont of self-control. Thank Jesus for credit cards that I didn't even apply for.
I also bought another novel by William T. Vollman. I'm not sure why. I'm sure it's about junkies and prostitutes and Thailand. I don't even like junkie prostitutes. Not that I know any. I just feel like they would be annoying.
Why I am so tired all the time? Oh right, it's three am.
 This is not much of an exaggeration. Said notebook is enormous. I went through distinct period of buying these massive tome-length journals, believing I’d fill every page with clever thoughts and ideas. Instead, I’d fill the maybe a quarter and the back half would be scratch paper, grocery lists and track listings for mix tapes.
 Probably at the pre--remodel Carolina Coffeeshop, where I used to go and smoke when you still could and order endless cups of coffee before shows at Cat’s Cradle, which I viewed as being much more educational than my (admittedly) bullshit classes. Given that I still work in a record store, this might not have been totally off base.
 I’d only recently decided I probably wasn’t a revolutionary communist, but I still sort of wanted to date them.
 Spoiler alert: Didn’t end well.