Your Little Ampersand

Last night I wrote a poem about sitting in a coffee shop that doesn't exist. It was brief, I don't like the ending, and writing it took the last of my pen's ink. Until I get a new one, I will be writing here.
Tonight is an abbreviated meeting with The Council because Kevin got a job and has work early tomorrow morning, and I'm going to see the Avengers at midnight with Dick, Steve Ryan, and Danny Cao. I'm especially excited to see the new trailer for the Dark Knight Rises, which is a terrible way to justify spending $11 on a movie.
Tomorrow is some kind of a poetry reading over at Stella. I may attend, unless I decide to play basketball with Dave or watch the Bulls game. Saturday will probably consist of watching a Serbian movie (which Ian described to Kevin with a word that I don't remember, other than that it was synonymous with "traumatizing"... Actually, maybe it was "traumatizing")
I've been pretty out-of-it all day today and I'm not sure why. It could be the heat and the humidity that should be washed away by a storm tonight. Or maybe because I didn't feed my body soon enough after exercising this morning (there was a good two hour window). I could have contracted a cold from Will, who always seems to be sick.
What else do people talk about? Uh... kiwi skins, those are tasty. Oh, I washed my face with coffee grounds this morning and it was refreshing. Basically, I took moist, used grounds and put them on my face and let it stay there for about 15 minutes. I looked like a monster, or a 24 year old with a face covered in coffee grounds. What else? It's been about a week and a half since I've washed my hair. That's nothing compared to the three months I did before I got my haircut. Well, actually before Erika wanted to say she was the one who washed it, so she did the day before I had it cut.
I don't know what I'm doing with my life. I feel like that line is on every page of writing I've ever written. There are constant reminders, though. Like now: I want to do this two week intensive creative writing program at Northeastern over the summer... for what? I'm not the least creative person I know, but I'm not far above run-of-the-mill. So what's the point? Well, to answer my own question, I'd say the point is to do something that I like. Kevin told me to get a finance degree so I can make some money. Hell no. I'll use that definitive answer as motivation against walking down a ridiculous career path that will insure my bank account and allow me to buy a few cool things while I hate my life.
I should try to bring things into focus, though. Like, will I ever be a musician? Playing with other people has taught me a few things: I'm better at creating when I'm by myself; I'm much lazier when I'm by myself; playing music is fun. The first two cancel each other out, leaving a self-indulgent, self-gratifying denominator. Writing comes much more naturally because it can only be done alone. The problem is that I feel the most comfortable writing at night, which is in direct conflict with having a girlfriend. As I spend lots of nights with her, my nights alone are spent trying to do as much as possible that I'd normally miss out on. I suppose the only remedy is to learn how to enjoy writing at, say 8 at night. Or at 2 in the afternoon. Or 9 in the morning.
I think people are only supposed to love once per lifetime. Unless there's a trick to evicting these memories from my head.