I went to an art opening tonight. Two girls were talking to me. I couldn't hear them. I could see them laughing. I knew one girl, but not the other. They are roommates, and they said they wanted me to make a painting for their apartment. I don't want to.

I went to a RISD event last night. Cheap drinks and free food. But it was otherwise pretty boring, so Brian and I snuck into a back room where an all-girl band from Ireland was playing.

Raymi was visiting, but she’s gone. She was gone before she left, but now she is gone, gone.

Roll over Beethoven and tell Tchaikovsky the news— Raymi's in town and ready to kick some karaoke ass!

I got out of bed, cleaned the apartment a little bit, went for breakfast, and then headed to Bedford Avenue to stop by the bookstore where my friend Jonny works. Jonny and I had been trying to make plans to hang out, but so far had only managed to play several rounds of phone tag. I figured it would be easier to stop in to see him at work, say hi, and make plans from there.

There is a McDonald's near the art supply store, so I went in—but walked right out again. McDonald's in New York City at lunchtime is fucking anarchy!

I came home last night to find a big "For Sale" sign on my building. My landlord sent me a letter a few weeks ago telling me he was selling the building, but I've been in denial about it.

Last night, I went out with the girl who is curating a group art show that I’ll be in. We met up with a couple of her friends. My name is Jamie, and her name is Jaime, which made for a confusing night—but whatever.

I like to write. I've always enjoyed it. My dad was an English teacher. He used to quote things at the dinner table and make me look things up in the dictionary. I had him as a teacher once when I was about 15 or 16. It was a creative writing class. At one point, the class wrote poetry. Trust me, being a 15-year-old boy writing poetry that your father is going to read and grade isn’t easy. But he knew I was sensitive about it, and he handled it well.