I think one big reason I'd want to live in Manhattan is Central Park. Everyone and everything here looks perfect. An unwashed person with matted hair and an aura of flies going through the garbage looks perfect. Every frame, perfect for a movie or a hit TV series.

I'm greatly distracted right now. My eyes dart all over and I'm having a hard time writing here on a rock in Strawberry Fields. There has to be at least one celebrity in the park today, major or minor. There just has to be. The weather and 'scene' are just too perfect for there not to be. I use that word a lot, perfect, but it really fits.

The weekend's not bad. Laura's off somewhere with her boyfriend, and I couldn't be happier. I've masturbated a total of five times from Friday night. Somewhat of a record and I'm damn proud. Kelly's gone and the apartment is mine again, as it should be. Some people just don't get how important and awesome it is to be able to masturbate in your own place with no one around. No voices out in the rest of the apartment. No one around to knock on your door and throw you off, forcing a "Just a minute" from your trembling voice. No obstacles whatsoever. I lied there in complete bliss after each longer-than-usual-damn-it's-been-a-long-time session. Maybe I'll just print a sign that reads 'I'm masturbating, do not disturb.'