I’m at home, alone. Marijuna is near by. Will I smoak it? Will I watch television? Will my thesis advisor read my blog poast? Will cutesy spelling ever get old? Will the rhetorical question look at itself in the mirror, make a face, pinch an inch of fat, and go out for the night? Akorn (Akon, Akron) likes how Suzahhhnnne’s fiction makes dramatic the things he finds invisible. Akron likes how Susan’s fiction dramatizes the little moments he shares with her. Akorn’s friend susannnnn writes fiction that reveals tedious things about the world he didn’t know existed, and makes them seem really important to someone else. “Oh, I had no idea there were tulip fat-scale ponds in the metaphor of your mind. Also, who gives a shit?” This is the miracle of bad fiction.
I just wasted big heap time reading dirty sugar cookies. Tonight I was reading these scrippps that have been endlessly stressing me out and I didn’t want to “waste time cooking” so I went out to find food. I live in the Castro now and it’s nice b/c I can go into a restaurant, take my shirt off, and pour ice water on my chest hairs without fear of running into anyone I know. I walked all around but all the restaurants had people in them. I wanted to eat alone, unseen. Takeout produces too much paper and styrofoam and shit, and I might not be alone at home. They might see me eating. I had a copy of the New Yorker and a 12-ft long RCA cable so I (once I bring it home) I’ll be able to listen to WFMU and BBC World Service at loud volumes. Just as I was giving up I found house of chen. It was good. Ate a lot of broccilli. I was the only person in the restaurant. The waitress said please after everything: “here is tea, please.” I read the last paragraph of the Tad Friend/San Quentin story, the A.L. Kennedy story “Wasps” (marriage fucken sucks) and some of the Peter Schedjehal Courbet bio piece (for a while Lacan owned origin of the world. He kept it behind a wooden door which he would open when he wanted to show visitors.)
I am sleepy. I love you.