Feels terrible.

Leaning on the counter as the guys ordered their food (on me, because I can't afford to pay them) in deadtown New Haven, CT, resting on one elbow and the urge to just lie down and die becomes so strong.

I could have a normal life. That's been my refrain for this whole trip. While I'm feeling miserable about the company I keep, the uninterested townies who politely clap in between songs, the horrible guitar tone coming from Eric's amp, the sloppiness in our performance, my cracking voice, not bathing for three days, the amount of money I've wasted on publicity, while all that is going on I'm just waiting for it to be over.

I try to think about what would make this better: A more solid band. Guarantees. Consistent routing. These are all rungs higher up whatever ladder I'm on. But I think of Ben and the rest of the group. The time it took to sound and be where they are, and that's barely enough to keep them in the game.

I feel unfulfilled. Sometimes I think of Elliott Smith offing himself, wondering how he could do that when things were looking really promising. Sometimes I'm in disbelief. Other times I understand completely.