There is a bar near my house that is always filled with bourgeois jerkoffs and every time I walk past it on my way to the grocery store I mutter to myself: “. . . I would rather eat my own balls than step foot inside that place.”

I know so many people who romanticize “the desert.”

It is a cruel place. It is not your friend. It hates life!!

To quote David Mamet’s ‘Spartan’ screenplay:

Cool Dude #1: In the city, always a reflection. In the woods, always a sound.

Cool Dude #2: What about the desert?

Cool Dude #1: You don’t wanna go in the desert.

There is a sage-like version of myself which exists within the great machinery of my personality who often prohibits me from having fun, or from having certain kinds of fun anyway, but who nonetheless has saved from a tremendous amount of grief and regret.

Even the one plan that was practicable, suicide, they had no intention of carrying out. To hang on from day to day and from week to week, spinning out a present that had no future, seemed an unconquerable instinct, just as one’s lungs will always draw the next breath so long as there is air available.

(1984)

what’s up with rich people

exhales huge cloud of weed smoke

art is dumb

Good-bye, Donut Farm~

(A stranger took this a few weeks ago. I had stepped outside to sigh and roll my eyes and realized a woman was taking a picture. I said, “Aw shit, sorry.” She smiled and walked away.)