let's fall in love. live a van. 

and move to new york.

or anywhere. but i want to GO. go go go go. 

  production sessions got my mind in a whirl

and god damn it. i can't even THINK of on the road, or being beat! without itching in my skin. i should have a t-shirt that asks people (politely) to never mention this book in my presence. it makes crawl and jump and kills me.

in short. i am exhausted. 

in tall, jen dubbed me The Dean Moriarty last night. and? i just about died. 

dean, dean the magical bean. trying to get my brains to move and think so that i can tell you what this means. but hey? who ARE YOU anyway? what the fuck do you care if i call myself a bean. what is the difference it makes? 

i'm in a strange mood. I SAID STRANGE. i feel full and empty all at the same time. 

 paper suitcases, late nights, early mornings.. life life life
GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GOGGOGO GOG OG GOG OGOGO GOGo

393.

 this is erin's new house mate. he plays the banjo. he's good too. and also.. very strange. he makes me nervous. yeah, me nervous. i'm really uncomfortable when he is around... ISN'T that weird? this is where out night started. erin's living room, with peach champagne. then? log and leah came over. we drabbed and went to eli's.

 i keep my pubes smashed, in the back of a truck. where yo YOU keep yours?

we were all broke. so we paid in silver change. the bartender wouldn't take our pennies. asshole. 

so? the night. what to say about last night... my idea of sober? champagne,  tecate, jameson, pbr, jameson, molly. i know. fuck. whatever. 

walking around town with a wet face. no fucks nowhere. beat and broken in west oakland.

story of my life. and? i fell in love with a lady.we tongued. she is going to tattoo me on thursday. i wonder what it's like to do it with a girl. like, do DO not threesome do. i wonder if i can DO it. i mean, i give hand jobs now. anything is possible.

so? here i sit in baggy clothes. with heart burn and a boner. cuz now? i'm old. 

bowie practice tonight. thanks to your gods i didn't go through my "bowie performance" phase in high school. dude, why do they call it high school?

390.

so? who's sucking who's dick today? i love valentines day.. i love everything. you know. erin and i are going to tear the world the fuck up tonight. i love her. truly. i know you know. YOU, whoever you are. HI MA! we are going to dress up, i'm going to sleaze.. and then? i've got about five bucks to spend. and i'm spending it on her. my special lady. my hearts and farts are bubbling. overloaded. SHIT'S EXPLODED. i'm on a teeter-totter. one side is  my desire to get completely fucked and drown in drugs and alcohol. the other side? my dreams of being a rockstar. i know which side i want my ass to fall on. but god damn i'm having a hard time. Sober Sister. needs a babysitter. serious? nope. never that. i still go what i am. i just need to... focus. it's time to pay attention, finally. i'm high ass fuck on life. and it feels great... i feel fine. 

HERE'S MY NUMBER AND A DIME, CALL ME ANYTIME.

sometime soon. i'll have some exciting things to say and show you. hey, what's not exciting about struggling with sobriety and throat bruises? you tell me.

381.

me and CB

 

internal struggle? let's dig. i love and hate this man. LOVE love and hate HATE. our similarities are obvious, are they not? i learned about bukowski when i was nineteen. i knew of him, knew the jist of him. but i never READ the man. i was nineteen, high on sex, lacking patnies, didn't own a toothbrush or have a place to live. i was backseatin' it in my PT, then known as The Bruiser. i met a lovely girl, Kel. she took me in, i started fucking her housemate, and we drank. we drank, drank and drank some more. wine. teeth darked, tongue busted, guts gone. bottles a night. it was a real good time. lot's of twilight, lots of talks. lots of reading. i read all her books. anais nin, bukowski, kerouac. my first bohemian experience, if it's not too douchey to say. so? where is all this going? fuck. i forgot. 

bukowski makes me sick. sick to my stomach, ill in my brain. 

he says brilliant things, and i just get my dick shitty.

i was talking about it with peter the other day. he was shocked to see me say I HATE BUKOWSKI. and i do. truly. he is a foul, awful shitting fucking menace. and THERE, that there is where all my love for him comes from. 

i despise and desire to BE him. to let go, to be truly foul. truly beat. 

struggle explained? 

or just another paragraph of bullshit filling up a page fill of nothing.

i am literally nothing more than a contradiction on two legs.

317.

"the only people for me are the mad ones; the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the sky.."

on the road is my favorite book of all time. it makes me itch beneath my skin. its makes me move. change. flip. out. 

i havent read it in ages. it turns me out. 

and turns me on.