Happy birthday to my sis, who deserves to be happy.
To the rest of the world, to the rest of you: I don’t understand you. I don’t understand any of you. I’m not even the same species as you. You make no sense to me. I am from a different world and a different genetic heritage. All I ever wanted was to love all of you, but all any of you ever gave me was your indifference and the opportunity to make a profit and to build a career.
I have no use for a profit. I have no use for a career.
I have no use for anything I can recognize or for anything I can get my hands on.
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Hemmingway said that for every hundred pages he wrote, ninety-nine were shit. For every hundred I write, only sixty-six are shit. Therefore, I am a better writer than Hemmingway, or at least a more efficient writer than Hemmingway. For those of you who hate Hemmingway: oh well. You hate everything.
I love Hemmingway.
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One paper down, two to go. I will be done with a second by sometime Monday.
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Three things touched me more than anything else ever in my life:
- The Northern Exposure episode called Nothing’s Perfect.
- Learning that I was my grandfather’s favorite.
- Young people spontaneously singing Lean On Me in a park at night in DC after the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Strange, because I am not a patriot and I didn’t think the attacks were particularly undeserved.
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Somewhere tonight, a mother cat is slowly dying.
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Somewhere tonight, a twenty-something man is sitting in a small university bar wondering what he will do next and whether it will matter to him more than what he is doing now.
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Somewhere tonight, Iraqi families, Spanish families and Afghani families, among others, are cursing the war on terror.
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Somewhere tonight, Nikki Sixx and Axl Rose aren’t dead yet.
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Somewhere tonight, Bob Marley is.