sometimes the very actr of writing feels completely futile. doing something, anything, can send the universe spinning off in a undesirable direction. far better to stay as still as possible, and plug in the umbilicus from the back of my skull to a stimu-box. AHHHHHHH. there's the drek. i already feel sated.
enemies at the gate.
everyone is after me.
different is dangerous.
kill em all.


this morning i had the very tip of a difficult conversation for breakfast.
it took a long time to get started
i buried my face in the pillow before i had the courage to begin
the same way i buried my face in the pillow when joey's mom flung open the tent-like doors of this (amazingly cool) car bed while we were sucking each other's dicks
at eight years old i spent a lot of time staring at joeys moms tits


they were huge because she was fat
but they were HUGE

i prayed she would go away

the rest of the day she has barely spoken to me

it has taken months of silent forgiveness and excuses made for her (by me so as not to bother her/embaress her) to come to this

no answer. light concern.
then silence.

maybe gin will fix this.

more later.
s