only slightly less than i used to
2007-11-26 1:10 a.m.

fine fine fine

since dying my hair an obviously fake jet black, i've noticed my ethnic orgin has become fuzzy.

man at the bus stop: "okay you take care of yourself, you fine arabian woman."

and then a buddist monk in saffron robes approached me and touched my arm. his english was eh-eh, but i believe he told me i looked like a native of his home land. i didn't hear where his home land was. i'm going to say tibet because i can.

wylie says buddist monks are not allowed to touch women, but wikipedia says they may not touch them lustfully.

thirdly a woman walked up to me and began speaking spanish. i know enough to know that she didn't start with, "do you speak spanish?"

i've told this story several times and now i'm sick of it.

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mark ronson! music i like. title comes from "stop me," his revision of a smiths' song. smiths' fans in outrage.

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the weekend was both catching up and avoiding, a funny game.

and then there were a few hours spent sticking pencils up my nose. i talked to ryan on the phone and he said, i saw the jews, and i asked about adam and that motherfucker mocked me, you believe it?

he squealed, "adam!" and then i told him to shut up, and i asked him about a girl he was still into after five years. he told me to shut up and we laughed.

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many people hit on me this weekend in varying degrees of subtlety, but what do i give a shit? where were you?

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wait last night i was behind a jeep that had this written on the spare tire: "life is good." i stared at the word life until it lost all meaning. life life life life life life.

no, i'm not deep. it could have been any word whose meaning transcends its linguistic properties. the sounds cannot support the thing itself. love sometimes throws me, but dead is the biggest one. when i read that, i hear it in my head spoken by a viking. he has a long beard and he has just invented this word, dead, starts with a duh, ends with a duh, arches up and then slams down with a thud. and in the middle, rusty marbles, eh. eh. dead. an angry little boy sound, a dog feeling, a plain punch in the cheek.

i wrote about this once before. back when i was freshly insane.

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you should not be afraid of me. you should give me a chance. the list of things you should do is written on a cotton bedsheet. want i should mail it to you?

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one day when i'm all better i'll come to your house and i won't leave. or if you get better first you can come to mine.

my plan's to do you til you break.