Yeah, so this entry was to be about running and hiding from the cosmic forces that bedazzle us, us stupid fuckers and our lanterns, but then I read Phil Brewer's journal and I was infinitely jealous.

Must remember to shake his hand.

So Tucker is out there banging some dude which is great.

And here I am looking at a passport that isn't me.

And crap, it's all crap. Crappy-crap. Just this vodka and this computer-effecting social change. You know?

Do you think the worms and maggots will ever crawl the body of love in that closet down there in the dark? what did that fly mean? why all that sunlight? will I live another ten years? a siren goes now, ambulance, then fire trucks later, the whole town of Philadelphia is on fire, and earlier today coming back from Atlantic City, I drove through the ghettos of Camden and they were shining their cars and sitting on their steps, they'd got their drunk on, now it was back to it, the riots being innefectual, so they said to themselves, "It's not effectual," so they realized as quickly as I did, that it is all for crap. The Canadians, nerve.com, sardines, my sweaty balls.

FOR THE LOVE OF GODDESS, WILL YOU UPDATE YOUR JOURNAL MORE THAN TWICE A MONTH?