Laura and I went to Van Kleef on Telegraph around midnight and got beers. At 1:15 they kicked us out. Instead of going home we drove to the top of Grizzly Peak.
Sitting on a felled redwood, I told Laura that when I was 15 I made a promise to myself: that if I wasn’t OK by the time I was 26, I would end it all. Back then I envisioned myself living in some shitty little apartment in Los Angeles. I had no reason to think I would be living in Los Angeles, and as far as I know 26 was an arbitrary end point.
Well: here I am. I live in Oakland, California, and I’m not OK, but as far as I know I’m going to be alive for the next five months.