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Is it just me, or does reading old journal entries just make you want to cringe?  Holy fuck am I boring.  If I were someone else and I read my entries, I would think I was pretty lame.

Oh well.  Lets just hope that next time I have something more interesting to say.

"Thank you for that smile.  Don't nobody do it no more," said a guy to me at a cafe when I smiled at him.  How awesome is that? 

About as awesome as the guy who rung me up at Walgreens tonight.  His name was Wesley.  He was so nice and so sincere and so genuine, I just wanted to win the lottery and then give him all my money.  You know how every once in a great while you run across some stranger who just makes your day, just makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside and restores your faith in human kind? (If only for 30 minutes)...

Well God bless them.

Despite not having much to say at the moment, I wanted to make an effort to write something, with the hope that I will eventually establish a habit and the words will begin to flow. I have not written much since graduating, and trying to eek out these sentences is making me painfully aware of the fact that I need to use it or lose it. I want to be a good writer. Well, an excellent writer. Not that I think I'll ever be a 'writer'. It's just something I want to learn to do very well, along with communicating in general, cooking, and dancing, among other things. So even though looking over the last few lines I've written is making me cringe, I'm going to forge ahead in an effort to write something at least remotely interesting. If anything I'll to practice my touch typing (another skill high on my 'learn to do well'' list).

Friday night I volunteered at the opening of two shows at the 'Yerb: Cosmic Wonder and Sampling Oakland. Altough I didn't really get a chance to see the works in either exhibition, my suspicions that both were rife with 'hipster art' were confirmed by both my friend Adam and a patron who gave me one of the best compliments I've ever gotten: she told me that I looked like I could be on...(drum roll)...Sex and the City.  It seems wrong that being compared to the well-heeled, self-indulgent heroines of an HBO sitcom would rank so high on my list of complements recieved.  I feeI like I should hope instead to be compared to an Eleanor Roosevelt or a Helen Keller, but it's hard to resist the allure of Carrie's vivacious personality and her fabulous clothes.  I just tell myself that Carrie's a good person too, and that she surely donates to Red Cross whatever she has left after buying her Manolo Blahnik's.

Well, I really should make some dinner, so I will have to get to my point about hipster art the next time I write.  As always I set out to talk about one thing only to trail off and yammer about somehting else.  I guess it just goes to show how pathetically happy the SATC compliment made me.