There were plans for a big essay thing, a real self-loathing marathon, loaded up with self-awareness about my inevitable future as a music critic. I'm now too exhausted to type it, there was a lot to it.

Instead I'll say that I ended up accomplishing what I wanted to accomplish. Job application handed in, short story submitted (and oh my god that rejection's going to fucking suck, even now as I expect it there's still some hope left but fuck no rejection rejection rejected) and Underworld finished.

Books on my bookshelves that are unread: Mishima, Confessions Of A Mask. Faulkner, As I Lay Dying. Faulkner, The Sound And The Fury. O'Connor, Complete Stories. Nabokov, The Stories Of Vladimir Nabokov. McSweeney's 15.

I am tired.

And shit: That mix I made of the music of 2003 designed to be both autobiographical (it's limited to what I heard within the year) and a best-of left off The Shins' Young Pilgrims, didn't it? Fuck. That's better than most of the songs on there. The issue is that I ripped the song for the express purpose of putting it on there, but in all the hustle I never put it on the playlist. Crap. It's not even like the sequencing on that disc is that good. Oh well.