I have several more attacks upon my person to add to a rapidly growing catalogue. These aren't nice, neat cuts from things as prosaic as knives in the kitchen. These are raggedy, jagged gouges along my arms and hands from couch springs and splintered wood, garnered as my roommate and I disassembled our old sofa in preparation for the new one being delivered on Friday. I can't even express how excited I am at the prospect of sitting on a couch that does not let me fall through to the floor due to lack of any kind of beneath-the-cushion support.

Diaryland should be considered a serious addiction. I check in a dozen times a day to a) see if anyone has left me notes, b) see if anyone on my buddy list has updated, and c) see if anyone new has added me to their buddy list. I have a rather serious time investment in the lives of you people that I read about -- I want to know how your classes (or lack thereof) have been going, how your trips to the opera (both as spectator and participant) were, how your jobs are. It is like a new little documentary produced just for me, every day.

My upcoming schedule promises to be interesting. Tomorrow will bring a trip to the Met. I cannot visit that museum without sitting in the Temple of Dendur room for at least 20 minutes, oohing and aahing over the latest exhibit in the Costume department, and imagining how I will start my future career as an emerald smuggler by stealing several of the swords in the Arms and Armor wing. (Side note regarding smuggling: While diamonds may be more lucrative, anyone can be a diamond smuggler. It takes style to smuggle emeralds.)

Afterwards, an evening with the set-up boy and friends.

Friday is Roommate Culture Day, activities to be determined, but possibly including the Empire State Building and the New York Transit Museum.

Saturday is Protest Day, first alongside the FDNY in Brooklyn, and then a new venue -- Fred is expanding his itinerary to cover the New York Underground Film Festival in the East Village. The latter has far greater potential to turn ugly than the former. Then a birthday dinner and a friend's band (assuming I have not been pepper-sprayed and dragged away in chains.)

This is a vast improvement over the past few days of utter inactivity. And it also depends on the timeliness of the U.S. Postal Service -- I am waiting for an envelope from my mother containing $100, which will finance all of the above. I am desperately tired of fiscal insolvency. My roommates and I just bought a passel of Lotto tickets (non-winning, of course.) Being broke is much more disheartening after one has held a vision of clutching one's share of forty-five million dollars on a tropical beach -- and having that vision dashed on the rocky shore of reality.