I wrote a really boring entry about what I did in Europe this morning, but I wanted to write again, so FUCK. I got jealous a moment ago. I don't want anyone telling me what to do, but I'm the worst fucking person to tell myself what to do. Not junk though, I don't want to tell myself to do that and i do want other people to tell me not to. And I want J.T. Leroy to write me back. I just e-mailed him. I doubt he will, he probably gets stupid 19 year old ex-SF junkie fans writing him all the time. I forgot about him too, till, Max told me of his diaryland diary, which I actually had read once before based totally on his diaryland name. And never paid any attention to until Max told me about it. And it makes me jealous. I am rereading Harold's End, and I am starting his book tonight. His second one. Hmm, life is odd. Absinthe in Praha was weird. I hope the bottles I shipped back make it here. They won't though. Read the last entry for a play by play of the boring shit (touristing in Italy and Germany and Ceska Republika) and the interesting shit (fucking in gay sauna, falling off a rented Vespa, absinthe, and much more). Life is good. Cap'N Jazz is also good. Need to read more. Need to look at this screen less. Need to get knee fixed, but that's the same as it was a month ago, two months ago, forever ago. Doctor on Monday will tell me if I should get cut open. I want to get cut. It will be good. Fun, NO, but good, yes. Strange thoughts. I need sugar. Yes. I don't need any more seizures. Either emotional seizing or physical, either way, it is bad. Really bad.
Better fucks for better kids. That should be my company's motto. I don't have a company, maybe that should be Pepsi's motto.
'When they told me about the silent bargain, that's when I knew I could not refuse. And I won't get any older now the angel's wanna wear my red shoes.' ----'(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes' by Elvis Costello