Lana Santorelli's useless life.

I can smell my feet writhing with pungent anger beneath my desk. Despite my attempts to create an effective distance between my feet and my nose, the odor hits my nostrils with an unwelcome kick every time I mistakenly breathe too deep. Why the hell do my feet smell so badly? My dad has athlete's foot, so does my brother, but to my knowledge that problem is not usually accompanied by such a sourness as I am experiencing right now. I think maybe it's my sandals.

I'm sitting at a desk on the ninth floor of 63 Cooper Sq. NY, NY. This is the last line I transcribed:

"Our new puppy arrive today. He is so cute, like a little snow ball.....Then I took the kids to the mall to buy Easter shoes."

Now, multiply those three adjectives: new, cute, little, and this important verb: buy, by four 5 subject notebooks worth of diaries and you have Lana Santorelli's life, which consists soley of being an unaware consumer with a unimpressive vocabulary and practicallly illegable handwriting.

Two more hours to go. Then I'm going to hightail my ass over to the Duane Reade and buy some cute, little orange slices and ignorantly consume all 2.5 servings per package.

"I really love going to Lucille Roberts. I like the exercise classes. I’m glad I started my membership last year."

really? am i really supposed to care? jesus, people's perceptions of themselves can be really, unfortunately skewed. I don't know who wrongly convinced mrs. santorelli that she was interesting and talented enough to be published. ah, wait, here comes my little glimmer of narrative hope, the notorious Anthony:

"I had a really bad day with Anthony. I tried everything to make him happy. I took him out to play; it was lovely weather. I let him run free through the house, but he took a bottle of Brandy from the bar, opened it, and started to drink it. He also took a bottle of medicine from the cabinet and tried to open it and drink that, along with about a hundred other things."

What a terror! It seems a shame that she should be distracted from compulsively buying couture dresses for her seven year old daughters by her obviously ADD son. No matter, we're only in 1981. He still has plenty of time to grow into his mansion-sized inheritance, complete with mummy's personal furnishing of the living room. Every child needs $20,000 dollar drapes, I'm sure.

I suppose I sound bitter. Well, I can't deny my anger, but can't you share my frustration? Nothing peeves me more than an individual who is too self-involved to be a productive member of humanity.

I can't wait until Kate and I have moved out of our current room and into a smaller apartment. I need the solice of reclusive space that can include both private and common areas...and a kitchen! I yearn for simplicity in my living area; i need my space to compliment my lifestyle. I need fluid motion - it leaves room for my neurotices to exist freely, and i have so many...

I thrive on routine. I'm looking to capture and stablize one soon. The uncertain inactio of the current moment, this specific moment even, is killing my confidence and aggravating my temper. I don't want to be dead, or counterproductive for any longer. It's maddeningly tiresome.

so, our landlord Alan says that the woman interested in our room is trying to scam us. okay, back to square one with this then...


Fuck this. Kelly is so right on. We need more potlucks in New Brunswick. Who wants to cook with me?