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1. Due to a shortage of time, I had to pick a neighborhood quickly and settled on Ridgewood. For those unfamiliar, it inhabits the netherworld on the border between Queens and Brooklyn. Although I grew up maybe 15 or 20 miles from here as a child, this area is so isolated, ramshackle, and so completely lacking in discernible landmarks that it's impossible to orient yourself without google maps. At best you can see 1 world trade center rising deliriously from the M train EL. So far the neighborhood has avoided the frontier artists that, three years ago or so, pushed into Bushwick, which is the next neighborhood west. Ridgewood is completely devoid of hipster irony, instead full of mysterious polish coffee shops that seem like mob social clubs, convenience stores with soviet like inventory, old-timey bars with bad pours, and generally no-one attractive.

2. Give it a year or two and the artists and the hipsters will push out here. There's already a coffee shop I go to to read in the morning — the kind with good coffee for whiteys who work "in media." I'm reading Raymond Chandler, as someone lovely once suggested, being useful after a breakup.

3 At the risk of repeating myself, for the love of god I must get off my ass and get a job.

4. I got a new script for wellbutrin. Hoping it works as well as it did last time.