Just got back from San FranSUCKSblow.

As soon as I got off BART at Powell Station I said under my breath: “. . . and once again I find myself in this spiritually-bankrupt cemetery for gopher turds.”

And now, like every other time I’ve returned from the other side of the Bay, I’m going to throw up and take a shower!!!!

Dude got his thumb in both pictures

Every time I go by a clinic (as I just did) and see a bunch of protestors outside, I always want to say to them: “Don’t you think it’s hard enough coming here without having to wade through a sea of self-righteous assholes holding crappy signs?”

One time in college I accidentally sliced my head open on the dead bolt of my front door and instead of bandaging it or stopping the bleeding I got in my car and called my dad and ranted for an hour about how I felt trapped and alienated in a consumerist society

Then whaddaya call the other 363 days of the year

(lol because sociopaths are probably reptiles in disguise and thus Reptile Show is just another name for Existence)

Only billionaires and sociopaths (and sociopathic billionaires (does a distinction exist?)) want to live forever.

Every sane person I know can hardly wait till the whole damn thing comes crashing down.

Good LORD I am having such a swell time by myself

This is the first year in something like five years that I haven’t gone to SXSW

I would honestly rather eat pages from the phone book than go to SXSW again

So as it turns out, the only music I can write to is perfectly awful pop music. Isn’t that weird? Or else I can’t listen to any music at all. I put on a Top 40 playlist last night and wrote like a psychopath. It’s like . . . I guess if I know the music won’t stop until I finish writing, it rockets a story toward completion.

I won’t tell you what I’m listening to right now because if I have to utter it verbally or otherwise, I really will have to go ahead and kill myself.

The story is a new GRITT CALHOON tale. After I publish it I’m probably going to be put on an FBI watch-list. Yup!