Gee Sqb, you seemed like such a nice boy. HA. Very nice writing my friend. It'd be good to see more of that me thinks. It reminds me of the time I walked into Spot and the girl asked me what I wanted.

"Clarity," I said. "Would you have any of that?"

You see, A small term goal in my life is to have people look at me and say, what? I think I know what you mean, but what?

ITs are all around but what do we do with them? Hmm? Oh wait, we use them right, for creative shit like writing. But the problem is, you don't know when it'll happen.

I was telling a doctor friend tonight that I think I might have a heart problem. My heart beats uncontrolably sometimes out of no where and it scares the shit out of me. The other day my arm went numb.

"So have you gone to the hospital?" she asked.

"Not at all."

"Why not?"

"Because it always goes away eventually."

That's just like IT, isn't IT.

On a side note Rachel, sorry for not swinging by Faherty's. Billy was getting a bit anxious to go and hear George W. and then puke all over, so I had to get him home. On another side note, he tried to kill himself today, sadly enough. I got home from work and found a chewed up bottle of Aleve by his bed, with half the pills gone.

It's okay though, I told him that he's important to me and that I love him and we hugged. He kept crying saying things like, I JUST COULDN'T DO IT, I JUST COULDN'T DO IT! I HAVE NO BALLS!

I know Billy. It's not always a dog's life.

I'm here for you brother.

So talking about IT.

The IT. The IT. You all know what I mean.

That litle guy who sits in your brain and tells you to do things that you should not. You try to shut the fucker up but that's as usless as saying, okay, tonight I will not imagine how sex would be with my neighbor, or her mother.

My idea is that this guy knows more than you ever will. He is the paragon of nihilism, and more often than not, he does not come out in most people, because he's lazy. You watch TV? So does he, but he gets twice as fat. BUt see, logically, taking that premisse, if you read a book, say some Camus, he gets twice as much out of it as you do. Which we all know how dangerous that is.

Drugs do nothing but knock IT out for a while. BUt what happens when you oversleep and miss your job, or a class? You get pissed. Alas.

My suggestion . . . don't piss IT off, for IT is really you. Let IT play now and then, throw IT a bone, toss IT a frisbee.

BUT should you feel IT needing more space than you have at the time . . . leave.

Find an open field or a beach and pray to GOD for a lightning storm.

Leave the tools at home my friends. IT knows how to use them much better than you ever will.

More on this later. If you are lost, it's because you probably know how to control IT. But see . . . that's just mean, not to mention incredibly boring.

I went to Florida for a vacation that turned into a display of how fucked in the head I really am. I'm wondering if it's genetic. Prozac couldn't make a dent in this mess.

I rode my bike down to fly out of JfK. My intention was to throw shit at republicans this past Saturday and Sunday on the return to civilization, but some asshole in a BMW stopped short underneath the FDR and I went scraping across the ground. My arm is all filled with road rash and I think I broke my left big toe. Did not stop me from riding home last night at 2am in the fucking downpour that draped over NY state.

Why did I leave last night that late?

The reason is this. After mending my bike to the point where it was ridable with a broken toe of which is used for shifting (the pain is/was intense), and talking to a bum who made my day saying that they put him away for five years only to realize that he did NOT have a mental problem, I headed of course to Brooklyn.

There I met up with Kenny, got a cane and began to drink.

I met an existentialist on the F train half cocked and am now emailing her. She had a rule, "always talk to people who quote more than 3 existentialist novels in a five minute period." Again that was me, half cocked.

I made it to Gregs where I met many friends and vicadin (sp?). I knew I was too much for the drug and continued to drink to prove it. After doing that properly, we headed to a chique bar of which I was thrown out of, with my cane all the time smacking on the ground cursing republicans.

I woke up the next morning in my boxers and headed to the kitchen sink to continue vomiting. I laid down and heard the stories of the night before. Jesse sat up and shook Kenny and I and told us to head to fight the good fight.

It was at this point I heard this . . .

"And this ladies and gentleman," he said as he pointed to us slobs swiming in our own feces, vomit, and urine, "is why the left will never make it in this country."

I rode through the night once I recovered and made it to French class at 8 am this morning.

Bring on the chaos for I am not ready.

Oh oui.

I think censorship is the way to go. Fuck those who try to get abscure bullshit plaguing the airwaves. Those bitches fucking blow. They're all cheese cocks, I swear to Christ.

There is just too much vulgarity and bad shit out there. Fuck everyone and protect our children s'what I figure. Dickholes.

As for the terrorist fucking shitheads. You read liter . . . you read lietru . . . you read books yer a terrorist, okay, you fucks.

S'all I have to say.

All extremists should be shot by the way.

Well. It was truly amazing. Didn't spend much time, but the time spent was worth spending. What?

A Newcastle, a cheesburger, John Fante, some decent blues that moved into this 18th street lounge vibe, and a glimpse of a young girl swinging on a bar with my hoping to God she doesn't fall. An amazing time had by all.

I was left wondering, as I took a sip, why would someone do that? What's the point of flopping around a bar?

That was when I looked at what I was doing, which was of course flopping around a . . .


To bad y'all missed out. I will catch you next time.

I will now shave my head.

perhaps . . .