do you remember rock 'n' roll radio?

FYI, this is post number 100, in case anyone cared. The computer said so.

I have this dream of buying a bicycle and being able to ride away into the city whenever I want to ("Dirty hippie!" -Rachel). I found a guy who's willing to sell me a bike for $75. I think I'm going to go get one from him this weekend. I'd go now, but he's only there on Saturdays. Call me what you will, but to me the idea of cycling off to God-knows-where with a harmonica in my pocket and a backpack on my back sounds like bliss.

This year feels strange to me. The people I relied on fell out under me. There's no Harry to smile at during meeting, no LK to hug, no deep "Veeevaaaaay!" from Peter to restore my sense of normalcy. Even Oona's soothingly dirty-blonde hair went platinum on me. I can't help it. I'm used to admiring Misa from across the meeting house, watching Amanda toss words with Mr. Schubert, eating guacamole on the Sex Bench. Rachel has in-house, though, and Amanda's gone, and I feel disoriented.

It's pathetic for me to talk about feeling disoriented when all of the people I'm talking about just went to new states and started living by themselves in college communities, of course; but I'm not afraid of change in this respect. I'd love to be in college right now. It would be a positive heaven for me, in fact. I'm ready to pack my bags right now. "Fear of change" isn't the issue. I just don't like this change. I feel like the creature comforts of my existence are dropping away, and I'm being forced to acknowledge that my life is rather dull.

I comforted myself by eating a jello cup, a bowl of chocolate ice cream and a piece of frozen chicken for dinner (even though I'm trying to lose 5 lbs), uploading about 40 albums onto my iPod, reading Ethan Frome from cover to cover for the first time and caressing the printout of the receipt of my Cream reunion tickets. (Had to get that out there... I can't help it. I'm bragging, I know. But it's going to be amazing.)

Reading Ethan Frome, I find it difficult not to get caught up in the feeling of utter meaninglessnes. I don't mean this in a cool, philosophical, decisive, Camus way; I mean forced meaninglessness. It's the same feeling I get hanging out with my dad's family. Everything seems so pointless. Why live if you don't think you'll ever affect more than a dozen people living in a dead little village somewhere? I guess I feel like people should have purpose, aspiration. I'm constantly upset at the intellectual dead-ness that crushes down on me. I feel like every book I read and every story I write and every thought I think is like forcing my shoulders one step closer to casting off this weight. I need the freedom of higher thought, of stimulation. I saw Babbette's Feast a few days ago: "The artist is he whose cry is always, 'Let me do the best that I can,'" quotes Babbette. I want to do well. I want to use my brain as much as I possibly can. I need to feel that I'm doing the best work I'm capable of. And I don't feel anywhere near that.

I do a lot of things kind of compulsively, and I'm not really sure why I do all of them. I'm a compulsive shopper. I buy everything from books to bathrobes to bicycles to jewelry to CDs to lampshades to chairs at whim. I never spend much on anything, which makes it a little better, but I hope it doesn't turn into a problem when I grow up. I eat kind of compulsively, especially lately, even though I resolved to lose five pounds and weigh the same weight my mom weighed in high school. I walk compulsively, sometimes sixty blocks at a time. I once rode the subway all over New York on a whim for a whole day. I used to do weird things when I was younger like buy five sets of sea-monkeys and alphabetize CDs and clean my closet out when I felt like it. I compulsively cover all the empty wall space I'm allowed to touch in my room. My mom has a little of this. When she goes on a kick, she gets completely into it. She'll see two operas a week all winter, or buy concert tickets for the whole summer, or buy a coffee pot she likes in every color it comes in. Sometimes I worry that these are signs of insanity. I guess I'm a little territorial, in my own way. I want to leave my mark, my footprint, whenever I can, because I don't think the world is always beautiful. I do this more when I'm in a negative mood, maybe because the world seems less beautiful then. I guess it's my stupid, petty way of trying to be somebody recognizable. I don't think of myself as a person with regular bodily movements and presence and personality. I don't know why this is.