The Sherman Restaurant makes sense to me.

Jackie and I sit in the back and get jazzed up on cup after cup of black coffee, talking about how to get famous. We compose spontaneous avant-garde pieces-- clinking ketchup bottles together, ripping newspapers, singing or speaking whatever lyrics come to mind. We gossip about Pearl, the insane night manager. Andy and Maria call her "puerca," which means pig, or maybe pork. Andy, the cook, has worked there sixty hours a week, every week for the past ten years. He is one of the most patient and kind people I know. Maria teaches me spanish words for things around the restaurant. Pearl reads her murder mysteries in the front, and bosses the customers around. We make some money, clean the place up, and go home.

Waitressing feels very legitimate and real. Legitimate work for legitmate money. Life makes sense. I don't have to move the universe. I will survive. I will be productive and happy. Everything will be ok.

Jim Fenner, a metalhead who lives in my dorm, just told me that he dreamt he had a threesome in the Willard laundry room with me and this girl Molly . This is the single most disturbing thing I have ever heard.

good night.