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.
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.
One paper down, two to go. I will be done with a second by sometime Monday.
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.
Somewhere tonight, a mother cat is slowly dying.
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.
Somewhere tonight, Iraqi families, Spanish families and Afghani families, among others, are cursing the war on terror.
Somewhere tonight, Nikki Sixx and Axl Rose aren’t dead yet.
Somewhere tonight, Bob Marley is.