Yesterday came and went. I have dreams sometimes, of monsters and wicked children and McDreamy and people I don't know and people I do know and the fog outside, it just rolls in thicker, thickest, like we're at the ocean. There's nothing left. Nothing really.

I like M83. Matt doesn't so he didn't tell me about this song and this one where have I been all my life? He says they're too hipster, that everyone loves them and they're not all that. But I think they're perfect for zoning out on. So. Whatever. Truth be told, I don't really catch up on bands so maybe I heard them before and didn't know it. Oh, well. One band will not define me.

I don't like when people scream at me, I shut off. It doesn't bode well with my mission to create harmonious situations in life. I do not like conflict. I do not like being yelled at. In fact, if you yell at me I will probably shut off until you've lowered your voice.

I find alcohol often causes people to scream. I find it just doesn't make sense, not really. But I guess life doesn't make sense. So... there's that.

I was so ambitious this weekend, but I've already missed zumba. Who needs it! Probably me. I like the feisty little instructor at the gym, but really the class is mostly populated by cute older ladies and then last time there were these early 20 something girls, as well. Too bad no one can really see into the class - my spastic movements are quite amazing. God help me.

Maybe when I come back, maybe I'll go to the gym then. Or a hike, the sun just came out. Today is someone's birthday. Someone special (duh - everyone's special on their birthday, don't you know?). I hope I can force myself to get out of the house, to go celebrate. I need to get out more, but I like my little neighborhood. My little cocoon.

So, this morning I got my coffee at Proof Bakery, which is like a stone throw's away from my house, and I wanted to wear my BF's Ireland sweatshirt because it may just be the most comfortable sweatshirt on the planet, but I actually changed (FUCK) because I knew it would be populated by the hippest of hipsters, and these hipsters would be wearing the most stylishly unstylishly ironic clothes. So I changed into a sweatshirt that actually fit me. So I put on some pants and flip flops. Wasn't wearing any underwear though - take that hippie hipster hipster-dos (or is not wearing underwear a hipster thing to do?). Really though, I just looked like I woke up. I just looked like I woke up and rolled out of bed and stumbled to the nearest coffee shop for some drip. Which I did. Some sustenance. Some IV drip. I guess I still wasn't hip with my get-up, but I ran my fingers through my hair, like, once. And inside the coffee shop, wouldn't you know, there were hipsters there, even with hipster kids! Perfectly cute and rosy cheeks and ironically dressed in messy but elegant and rainbow colored clothes and little cute hipster boots that I actually wanted. Yes. I envied that little five year old girl's boots. Where did her mother get them? Did they come in grown up sizes? Did the little girl pick them out herself? "Mommy! I want those, those leather ones with the little flowers and crimson hue that make me look like an urban cowboy."

Sigh. Anyway. It was like walking into a catalogue. A catalogue of indifferent too-cool-for-school clothing. Yes. That you wear.

I stumbled back with my coffee and this delicious sesame pastry thing. Of course, of course it was delicious. I'd go there everyday if I could, though the coffee was a bit bitter. Honestly, I think Revo's a better deal. For the same price you get a cup of Joe that's three times as large. Not as bitter too.

But Proof. Proof, you keep me coming back. Why can't I quit you?

Oh, shoot. Greek class now. Instead of studying this morning, I wrote for two hours. Ha, ha. I am not very productive, though in my head, in my head I want to be.

I fear I have too many commitments that I impose on myself, too many go-here, go-there plans. I need to simplify. It's the new year after all. I need to make sense of the unsense.

UNSENSE. Is. Not. A. Word.