327 Market

I had insomnia last night. Started reading Angela's Ashes (by Frank
McCourt). The visions of starving Irish children in Brooklyn weren't
all that comforting (it made me think of my mother's family). My brain
was doing that hamster thing... I'd think of Wobbly, the dis by SFMike,
of NY, of the sorry state of my finances, the Submarine (I think it is
going to be called the SS Concubine.. at least that sounded good at 3
AM.. it goes well with the sense of claustrophobia that pervades the
ship. I played an entire episode out in my head, i need to draw it),
then I'd think of Wobbly again, and the cycle would continue.

I sent SFMike a short e-mail thanking him for the tea, and little else.
Am I supposed to be nice? I suppose there is always the possibility
that it won't work out with his other chick. But if I burn that
bridge now, I won't have to wonder.