I have been living in a flu-induced fever dream hell for nearly 72 hours

at some point every day i slowly clench my hand like roy in ‘blade runner’ and quietly say to myself: “time . . . to . . . die. . . .”


Dude, ugh

When people call themselves writers and then I read their writing I feel rotten as hell. (Or maybe it’s just people calling themselves writers???)

Besides my friend Tim I can’t think of a single person’s writing I would possibly want to read who hasn’t been dead for like 150 years.

Seriously when was the last time you went to a bookstore and took a recent novel off the shelf and flipped through it? Have you read anything from a quote unquote modern literary magazine? Good lord! I would rather eat my own balls, man.

As my good friend Gritt Calhoon would say: What sorta needle-dicked pinky-liftin turds are readin this crapola???

I felt so good by the time I left New Orleans. I wonder what the hell happened.

(Honestly I think part of it is that I didn’t look at the internet for two weeks. I just hung out with cool people and read a bunch of novels. Man.)

At night in Oakland I feel so twisted up and I’ve figured out that it is because I am stranded in my own neighborhood. I don’t have a car or a motorcycle or a bicycle, and because Oakland is so large and spread out, and dangerous at night, I feel trapped. In the past I would walk north to Berkeley, but that’s a good three or four miles on foot, and by the time I get there I already feel like turning around and going home. That and no one ever wants to come with me.

In Nokesville I could get in my car and drive to the woods. In Baltimore I could walk from one end of the city to the other. In Austin I could step out my door and wander around Hyde Park for hours and see a lot of different places and no one ever bothered me.

Oakland is a ghost town filled with trash. This is my last month here. Whoa!