David Estrin, the writer. David Estrin, the painter.

I can open and close doors inside myself as much as I like. David Estrin, the insecure artist.
I just finished re-reading Kurt Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions. I re-read this novel for the same two reasons that I re-read Slaughterhouse-five and Bluebeard: First, because picking up a book from my shelf is 100% more cost effective than buying a new book, and second, because books, unlike a tissue or a bag of chips, are not over when you are simply done reading them. The intimate experience you can share with a book will still be safely stored within the words and spaces and punctuation marks on the pages.
David Estrin, the sentimental slug.
I think I need to curb my fig habit. It has become a disgusting monster in me. There were a few days a couple of weeks ago where I ate nothing but fruits and salads... perhaps those foods, supplemented by a small amount of seeds, would do me well. I am not sure. I am a sucker for food. I would like to shed some pounds, I know I would feel better... A weight would be lifted from me.
David Estrin, the future perfection.
David Estrin, the present disaster.
I am getting a lot of hours at work again, good news/bad news, I suppose. 40 hours a week, and the worst hours... Midnight to eight-thirty in the morning, five days a week. It dawned on me this morning that I have been nocturnal for over six months now working this incredibly unimportant job. Wow.
David Estrin, the worthless man.
I was on my lunch break in the very early morning taking a walk, as I always do, and thinking about the exact amount of money I am actually earning after taxes, and then I realized that that is my current worth to the world... my current worth is seven dollars and fifty cents for every working hour I contribute to this store, this company, this planet. I must be worth more than that to someone.