Those made of twinkies and pizza like to accuse those of us made of tissue and smoke.

But we waft and wither, and they just lay there, greasy.

I eat the fringe, and the fringe eats me.

Ooooh.

God I’m old.

So I’m looking at my old web diary posts and my old e-diary entries and some old random shit that I randomly shit out, nothing special, nothing big, not a federal case, not a tsunami in a bottle even, just what happens when happens happens and you happen to type it in.

And it was all, like, yesterday, like 1999 and 2001 and those years that are just right now, just right now and not even really over yet (just the deluded people think they are) and all of those clothes are still fresh and new and all of those news stories are still topical and all of those thoughts are still in my head because they haven’t gone out the exhaust yet because it hasn’t been that long.

Only it has. In 1999 I was 23, as in just over drinking age, as in closer to the nipple than to the nape… And now here I sit in a SoCal bottle bubble and I’m nearly thirty and still typing shit, but in altogether different colors because

God I’m old.

I feel ill. I don’t know how I’ll manage to stay for another two hours, or be productive during that time.

I feel like I’ve been run over by a thousand loaded refuse trucks.

I dreamed in Mountain Goats and Red House Painters lyrics and tunes all night long.

I didn’t sleep for the longest time… I wanted a futon or a bed very badly.

As soon as I get my next advance payment, I’m buying an E-300 and selling my E-10.

I don’t think I’ll drink again for quite some time.

It has only been two weeks. Christ almighty.