I wrote this when I was 25. It was published when I was 26. I still like it. It’s out-of-print, but I own the rights. My agent Julie Flanagan is going to work on getting a new publisher for it next year. I’m currently working on two books, Reasons to Live: A Fractal Memoir (~95% done) and a book version of “My Spiritual Evolution.” Sam woke around 3:30 p.m. and saw no emails from Sheila. He made a smoothie. He lay on his bed and stared at his computer screen. He showered and put on clothes and opened the Microsoft Word file of his poetry. He looked at his email. About an hour later it was dark outside. Sam ate cereal with soymilk. He put things on eBay then tried to guess the password to Sheila’s email account, not thinking he would be successful, and not being successful, and did fifty jumping jacks. “God I felt fucked lying on the bed,” he said to Luis a few hours later on Gmail chat. “I wanted to fall asleep immediately but that is impossible. I need to fall asleep. Any second now. Just fall down asleep.”“I played video games, Perfect Dark,” said Luis. “I killed people for two hours then I got bored. I know what you mean by impossible.”“This is fucked,” said Sam.“You know those people that get up every day, and do things,” said Luis.“I’m going to eat cereal even though I’m not hungry,” said Sam.“And are real proactive,” said Luis. “And like are getting things done, and never quit their jobs. Those people suck.”“We get shit done too,” said Sam. “Look at our books.”“I know, but that brings in no money,” said Luis. “Are we, like, that word ‘bohemians.’ Or something. Our bios: ‘They lived in poverty writing their masterpieces.’”“We are the fucked generation,” said Sam. “Someone release the press release announcing this. Look at that typo.”The word “announcing” was almost twice as long as normal.“I’m laughing,” said Luis. “That is a good typo.”“How do we get out of this,” said Sam.