Last night I did a dangerous thing, which was to think about stuff. It went like this:

  • Part One: I have a secret plan. I can’t tell you or anybody else about it just yet . . . cuz then I might blow it! This is not last-ditch effort, but maybe it is the next up from that. It is a very good thing and I desperately hope it works. I will make it work because it has to work. It is very important to me . . . maybe more than most things even! And this thing involves MY ENTIRE LIFE, and all the things in it. This thing will happen in the next six months. I think it’s going to rule. (Man, it sure is obnoxious to read something vague huh!!!)
  • Part Two: I am accustomed to tragedy and failure, and on and on, and anticipate its cold hateful hands tightening around my neck at any given moment. In the event that THE FIRST PART OF THE PLAN fails, even if it is many years from now, the next part involves me changing my name and maybe going off to Germany or Austria, where my distant family is. (I don’t know them very well, but they’re nice people and I wouldn’t mind seeing them every now and then.) Hell: I will get a nice overcoat and live alone above a bar or a bagel shop or something. I will develop an opium habit and lose all contact with my family. I will make money by gambling and by selling counterfeit luxury handbags. I will speak in complete paragraphs to any stranger who does not immediately run away from me. I will fall asleep in movie theaters and cemeteries and read in the last pew of 13th century churches on weekday afternoons. I will stay in Europe until some part of my body begins to disintegrate, probably my mind, and give the 700-page novel I have been writing to my lawyer before jettisoning whatever life I have there to proceed to THE FINAL PART.
  • The Final Part: I move to Antarctica and get a job driving trucks or running a post office or cooking for scientists. If I am still completely insane come January, I will suit up and leave whatever facility I’m living in at midnight on my birthday and point myself in the general direction of the South Pole. I will walk until I die. Probably that thing will happen where you think you’re overheating when really you’re extremely cold and you end up taking all your clothes off. I will die facedown in the snow in a pair of black long johns. In the inside pocket of my discarded jacket will be a brief suicide note and a copy of my will, which stipulates that I be buried in an icy tomb wherever I fall. I’ll try to make it funny. Hopefully I will be no older than 42 or 43. My funeral will last thirty seconds. A priest will scream something unintelligible across the dead earth and fire a single shotgun blast into the ground where I lay. My tombstone will be a pile of rocks I had been collecting and storing beneath my bunk.


Have a great day!!!!!!!!!!


but it’s also just EVERYTHING

the sickness unto death is the sum of all things real and imagined

all weekend i have had a difficult time finding peace in any of the things i keep in my house that are supposed to do just that

because, let’s face it baby: none of that crap is going to save me or you or anyone else

despair isn’t an emotion in this household

it is an occupation!!!

mommas, don’t let your babies grow up to be starsailors!!!!

i drank a cup of coffee at midnight because i’m a huge idiot but i’m going to attempt to go to sleep now anyway

i haven’t really slept in ten years lol

i’m serious


someone put the machine on me and see what’s inside

what would my reaction times be

it would almost be a relief to be identified as a replicant

my memories feel like implants anyway!

yo: V-K me, man

prove to me that i am what i think i am, which is artificial

and send me to an early retirement, if you know what i mean!

(i’m perfectly sane, by the way, if you are in fact allowed to declare yourself so. i’m just exhausted and fulfilling my duty as an agent of despair. sue me, man. i have the sickness, and you do too. so long for now ☆)

Before I moved to Oakland in 2013, I made this mockup of what I wanted my house to look like:

(That was my real living room! I just grabbed a picture from the Craigslist ad~)

((That place ended up being a former meth lab, by the way. I found an article about it on some website about Oakland neighborhoods. Apparently when my scumbag landlord bought the place, my bedroom contained a dog skeleton.))

(((Nice house otherwise~)))

When I moved back to Oakland from that miserable hole called Portland, I made a new mockup of the house Kerwin and I wanted to live in:

Hmmmm. Maybe none of those jokes make sense. They’re not any good either!

Yup! bye

I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started.

i dropped a glass in my bathroom and it shattered and slashed my achilles heel

i went to lake merritt to forget about love for a few hours!!!! and for real i walked past fifteen couples holding hands and no one else

oh and also a family of raccoons (one of them was albino)