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I'm in one of those moods where I could write angst-ridden poetry, but I'll spare you the horror.

Here are some things that are bothering me: My mom quit her job and doesn't have another. My psychiatrist doesn't care what I say; he thinks my life would be better if I listened to more Tom Petty. (I don't get it either, but this was his honest advice, and the only coherent thing he ever said to me.) My instincts tell me that there's a conspiracy against me, and I have good instincts. I have $12.45 to my name and cannot get more money unless I sell something. Girls don't like me. I don't like me. Katie wants me dead. I lost my rain hat yesterday, which will probably result in more sickness.

Other than that, I feel pretty good.