Reading a short story, drinking a dirty chai, thinking about rights: personal, reproductive, Constitutional. I hate(d) my parents, say the f word way too much. I write letters to the past and have no hope for the future. I love my friends, my books, my solitude. Trying to fuck life into a cliche, not to let irony kill me. With too much time getting away from me, I have less and less to say. The form is taking and I am trying to fill up pages with characters and stories. I've learned a lot. I know nothing. They say the best way to find something is to stop looking, so is the best way to love something to stop caring?
Still a sucker for a big nose, long trench coat and a government paycheck.
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