While my mom watches The Sopranos, I dream about my bohemian paradise, where no plates will ever match, and there will be no venetian blinds, and the door will never be locked.

I wandered the city today in search of a notebook like the one I used to carry and a dress-form mannequin and came home with a messenger bag, a hat, and two yards of soft black cloth. I decided it wasn't worth getting my parents upset about a mannquin, and besides, that would have meant carrying it home and walking my bike back from 38th street to 13th in the freezing cold. I never got around to buying a new notebook because I realized that between bullshitting a sketchbook for my Photo class, papering my walls, sketching and writing in my big five-subject thing, and updating this blog, I really have more than enough creative outlets to fill. Which is partly why none of them are really any good. Anyway, I've been writing a lot more lately even without the notebook.

The more I fill up my sketchbook with receipts, finished to-do lists, and doodles of Patti Smith and winter-men with melting beards and little dwarves, the more I realize how lucky I really am. What's this depression bullshit? I live in the middle of New York. The people around me aren't that bad. I found a really incredible guy who for some inexplicable reason loves me. I'm not hideously fat or ugly, don't have any deadly diseases or even any allergies or asthma or anything, and have two happily-married parents that treat me pretty well. I no longer worry about dying alone every time I eat a cupcake. I'm smart and get decent grades and have prospects for a good college and some kind of career. My writing's not that bad. I'm multitalented and do well on SATs and IQ tests without really trying, and I'm emotionally alive and kicking and highly inspire-able. My photo teacher probably thinks I'm a spoiled brat for all my whining, and I don't blame her. I must be really frustrating sometimes.