So ... yah. I need to go to Ikea. I have too much clothes and no furniture. I was putting away the laundry I did last night and yah ... I need furniture. A trip to Ikea is a must now. If I could go tomorrow I would but everyone I know with a car is working and live in the city. New Yorkers hate crossing the water. I have no idea how I'll pull off a trip to Ikea this week. Aaron works some crazy hours so he's pretty much out of the question. Where's Amber when you need her? I also have to get a desk for my laptop this week. Richie might be able to help me out. That would be great because I wouldn't have to spend anything.

I forgot to note on Friday that I finished 'The Orton Diaries'. Finished it on the train ride up to White Plains. It left me feeling eerie. Eerie because his last entry ... wasn't a ... well .. last entry. It wasn't meant to be his last entry. That made me feel really weird.

Tuesday 1 August

Said goodbye to Kenneth this morning. He seemed odd. On the spur of the moment I asked if he wanted to come home to Leicester with me. He looked surprised and said, 'No.'

Orton was killed by Kenneth, who then killed himself on August 9th, 1967. I mean ... how eerie are the words "He seemed odd"? I sat there staring at the book for a while. My eyes were wide. Then I started thinking of what my last would be. Something ditzy? Will I be bitching about how uncomfortable my contact lenses are? Maybe talking about how much guys suck? I just sorta hope it's a good one. The few people who read my diary wouldn't even know something happened. Couldn't send them a mailer saying "Sorry you guys, I got hit by a bus. I look like shit. Oh ... and I'm dead. The bastard! No more updates."

Kenneth left note on the desk before he took the sleeping pills. Telling the police that Orton's diary would explain it all. It's just really sad. With the overactive imagination I seem to have ... I felt increasingly sad as the images of how I pictured the murder/suicide ran through my mind.

Creeps me out sometimes when I check my site stats and see that someone's read like 37 pages of my diary. 37 is a lot. Or someone's read even just 15. I have no idea who they are or could be. And after looking at stats like that and seeing no new guestbook entries ... it makes me really wonder who they are. Sometimes I see what could be the same person ... reading even more an hour later. That's been happening a whole lot lately. Some of the hits I can understand. Like hits from a few sites that features links to diaries of persons in the New York City area and posted entries about the terrorist attacks. But then you have people who just surfed in and read unhealthy doses.

My Google 'search strings' are sometimes very weird. Lately ... a whole lot of people have found my site looking for 'uncircumsized penis photos' ... *blank stare* ... I can't remember what entry that lead them to. Probably the 'Bored with Penis' enty. Then there are people who find this entry looking for 'perky nipples'. They had to have been disappointed.

7:46:49 pm

I love the street I live on. I have a great view of the city. Buses that go into the city are almost always running. Beautiful people live on my street. Cute joggers and bladers. There are parks. Go one street over and it's totally different. Almost cartoon-like .... the difference. I walked over to the store I usually go to, not far from my apartment ... to get some cranberry juice and a couple Red Bulls. Store was closed ... soooo ... I walked a little until I found another store. I was only like 6 blocks from my apartment. But if someone threw me out of a van, blind-folded .. I would've had no clue where I was.

There was this woman on the sidewalk slapping on a pair of latex gloves. Doing that and then walking towards ... I guess ... her apartment.

"If you need latex gloves to open your own door ... that can't be a good thing," I thought.

The store I went to was out of cranberry juice. I bought apple instead. That and a bottle of water. I got my bearings right and got home. Amazed at the difference a couple blocks made.