cute things only

i’m inches away from ripping my head off my still-living body, and so to postpone that for as long as possible, i’ve been reading a bunch of old shit on project gutenberg. and yeah anyway i’m reading ‘peter pan’ or whatever, and man it’s pretty good.

well: laura calls dante toots or tootles, among a lot of other names. and tootles is one of the lost boys. he’s the gentlest / slowest one. i found this passage and i imagined it was my cat talking and it made me really sad lol

“May I sit in Peter’s chair, as he is not here?”

“Sit in father’s chair, John!” Wendy was scandalised. “Certainly not.”

“He is not really our father,” John answered. “He didn’t even know how a father does till I showed him.”

This was grumbling. “We complain of John,” cried the twins.

Tootles held up his hand. He was so much the humblest of them, indeed he was the only humble one, that Wendy was specially gentle with him.

“I don’t suppose,” Tootles said bashfully, “that I could be father.”

“No, Tootles.”

Once Tootles began, which was not very often, he had a silly way of going on.

“As I can’t be father,” he said heavily, “I don’t suppose, Michael, you would let me be baby?”

“No, I won’t,” Michael rapped out. He was already in his basket.

“As I can’t be baby,” Tootles said, getting heavier and heavier and heavier, “do you think I could be a twin?”

“No, indeed,” replied the twins; “it’s awfully difficult to be a twin.”

“As I can’t be anything important,” said Tootles, “would any of you like to see me do a trick?”

“No,” they all replied.

Then at last he stopped. “I hadn’t really any hope,” he said.

hey look. rachel k. came back. whoa. i’m about to head to her house and help her make cookies for her high school art students. i’m bringing a bottle of $3.99 trader joe’s pig wine.

leila came back a few weeks ago. we’ve been buddies again ever since.

it truly is a christmas miracle!!! b*tch!!!

my friends :’-(

are back :’-(

. . . :’-)

HELLO
AGAIN

I went home last night feeling like a duffel bag full of rained-on vampire turds, and I’ll tell you what, I sure did snap out of it right quick on account of the niceness that has recently showed up on my doorstep, like a patch of toadstools rising up from the ground to catch me before I fall . . . and thus counteracting the deadly blow which forced me down in the first place. . . .

And I sure did write and write. I finally finished my great work, which I have called

GRITT
CALHOON
AND THE
BIG-ASS HOLE
IN THE
GROUND!

Yes! As I have said before, we find our hero Gritt Calhoon journeying through space in a little ship head towards the kind of place you and I might call no place at all. His sixth wife has just left him for some rat-faced cheese-eating milk-drinker, and he’s got nothing to live for anymore, and he needs a place to take a piss and get a stack of pancakes and a shot and a beer, and so on . . . you know, just the sort of shit Gritt Calhoon’s always wadin his big-ass hips through. Well, he finds a hole in the ground, and I don’t mean to spoil nothing, but he goes down into it to take peep at what’s lurkin below with the big-ass beautiful eyes the Lord done gave him. It’s a wild thing. I hope y’all will dig it when I flop it out onto the sidewalk for y’all to chew on like sewer rats. Or maybe probably you’ll just step right over as though it were a flattened dog turd left out in the sun, which, honestly, is its true nature. Either way: here it comes!!!

HELLO

I will be in the city of LOS ANGELES in MID-JANUARY. Uh! Let’s hang out dude. Yeah. I am going because I want to see my friends there. It has been some time.

The weekend after that I am having a HUGE BIRTHDAY PARTY. It will be the first one I’ve ever thrown for myself . . . and really it’s just going to be another surreal dream of a party similar to the Funeral of Kermit the Frog. I have a few ideas in mind . . . namely, a public trial and a public execution . . . or, shit, what if I bought a huge inflatable hot tub and hired a Swedish masseuse or something, and turned my backyard into a spa? What if we celebrated the end of the world? What if we celebrated the fact that I was just crowned Duke of Oakland / Tyrant of the East Bay? Hmmmm. We’ll seeeeee~

As they say: WATCH THIS SPACE. Someone told me we had something like 35 people at the Kermit funeral. Can you imagine? Man, I’m gonna make this next one real huge and insane. I had a stupid awful backstabbingly fucked rotation around the sun so please show up at my house and feel weird with me and all the coolest kids in Oakland. OK!!!

We are dreaming now of the Never Land a year later. It is bed-time on the island, and the blind goes up to the whispers of the lovely Never music. The blue haze that makes the wood below magical by day comes up to the tree-tops to sleep, and through it we see numberless nests all lit up, fairies and birds quarrelling for possession, others flying around just for the fun of the thing and perhaps making bets about where the little house will appear to-night. It always comes and snuggles on some tree-top, but you can never be sure which; here it is again, you see John’s hat first as up comes the house so softly that it knocks some gossips off their perch. When it has settled comfortably it lights up, and out come Peter and Wendy.

Wendy looks a little older, but Peter is just the same. She is cloaked for a journey, and a sad confession must be made about her; she flies so badly now that she has to use a broomstick.

WENDY (who knows better this time than to be demonstrative at partings). Well, good-bye, Peter; and remember not to bite your nails.

PETER. Good-bye, Wendy.

WENDY. I’ll tell mother all about the spring cleaning and the house.

PETER (who sometimes forgets that she has been here before). You do like the house?

WENDY. Of course it is small. But most people of our size wouldn’t have a house at all. (She should not have mentioned size, for he has already expressed displeasure at her growth. Another thing, one he has scarcely noticed, though it disturbs her, is that she does not see him quite so clearly now as she used to do.) When you come for me next year, Peter—you will come, won’t you?

PETER. Yes. (Gloating) To hear stories about me!

WENDY. It is so queer that the stories you like best should be the ones about yourself.

PETER (touchy). Well, then?

WENDY. Fancy your forgetting the lost boys, and even Captain Hook!

PETER. Well, then?

WENDY. I haven’t seen Tink this time.

PETER. Who?

WENDY. Oh dear! I suppose it is because you have so many adventures.

PETER (relieved). ‘Course it is.

WENDY. If another little girl—if one younger than I am and—(She can’t go on.) Oh, Peter, how I wish I could take you up and squdge you! (He draws back.) Yes, I know. (She gets astride her broomstick.) Home! (It carries her from him over the tree-tops.)

In a sort of way he understands what she means by ‘Yes, I know,’ but in most sorts of ways he doesn’t. It has something to do with the riddle of his being. If he could get the hang of the thing his cry might become ‘To live would be an awfully big adventure!’ but he can never quite get the hang of it, and so no one is as gay as he. With rapturous face he produces his pipes, and the Never birds and the fairies gather closer, till the roof of the little house is so thick with his admirers that some of them fall down the chimney. He plays on and on till we wake up.

um helllo you’re totally allowed to have more than one best friend

i love you tracey!!

my best friend

i love you laura

dante and laura and all her many flowers she collected in berkeley and oakland during our acid trip last month [this is where i would put a black heart emoji but it won’t show up on my dark website]