I'm reading White Noise by DeLillo right now. It's giving me a real bad case of the "I'm waiting for something but nothing ever comes"es right now. It makes me want to eat a lot of fried chicken. It makes me hungry, voraciously hungry, the way only a novel about ennui and death can.

I wish I had a car here in Provo. If I did, I would drive and drive and drive. I don't though, so I walk and walk and walk. I wonder what other people think about when they walk. I wonder if they whistle or sing like I do a lot of times while I walk. I can't help not singing or whistling. I wonder if they think that it's weird that I'm whistling or singing. I wonder if the ground can hear me singing and whistling.

Sometimes I pass somebody and am suddenly embarrassed and worried that I'd been saying my thoughts out loud as I walked. Not that I typically think anything vulgar or embarrassing. In fact, I think a lot of very boring, self-centered things. But isn't that more embarrassing than, say, thinking about death or blowing things up or sex?

If I were to walk past somebody who was saying all of their thoughts out loud and they were saying, "I don't think I like the way I walk, I think it looks like a lumberjack on steroids. Man it's cold out today, why didn't I bring a jacket? Do I have bad circulation? How long of a walk is it up a mountain? Could I do that?"
instead of "I would love to kill that guy. And seduce that old lady. And knock over that newspaper dispenser. And jump out of a window."

Our ordinary thoughts are embarrassingly devoid of beauty, imagination, or outwardness. They sound just like a footstep on concrete. Dull. Monotonous. Irritating.