I will now sleep for twelve (12) hours and then wake up and write a stupid novel

“Well,” said the human who was cursed with memory and hyper-awareness, “time to wake up again—time to plug myself into my personality. I guess this is what my hair looks like; I guess these are the clothes I wear; I guess these people are my friends.”

I wish I could write while I’m driving, because I come up with so many good ideas while I’m on Route 1 driving back from the Sunset into downtown San Francisco.

Sentences and paragraphs and complete stories turn to vapor because my fingers are wrapped around a steering wheel instead of a pen.

Maaaaan!!!

I’m gonna go back to Los Angeles soon and visit a bunch of people and probably sleep outside

McCune had a pizza party tonight. Around 1 a.m. I drove Tracey home because her spine hurt. Then I went across the Bay Bridge and drove people around for a few hours.

One of my fares was a lady who was on her way to break up with a guy she had been seeing for a few months. She asked for my advice. I told her to get rid of him and not look back. When we got to the dude’s house she asked if she could hug me and I said yes. We hugged. She said good-night and went upstairs to do the deed.

Man, it’s all long forgotten now, and none of it means a single god damn thing anymore

When I am outside my house, these are the most frequent thoughts that go through my head:

• Please don’t talk to me
• Please don’t touch me
• I’m not doing that
• I’m not going in there
• How much longer

There’s no point in feeling ashamed about this, so I won’t. Tonight I cried for the first time in a year. I was in my car thinking about my cat Phoebe, who died on a spring day ten years ago.

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.

Laura, who lives with me, drew a skull for an animal that doesn’t exist. I told her to combine a ram, a goat, a bear and a cat and add a bunch of horns. She did it! I’m going to spray-paint it onto the hood of my decommissioned police car soon: