GRIS

gris is home, and that's the only good thing i can think of.

i wish i had the guts to break down, or let it go. but i'm really starting to believe it's not up to me, but the screenwriters. the strike is over yes indeed. back to work, you typers, suckers, and my life is a mess - again.

ol' gris is home at least. he's watching the telly. i'm drinking wine and eating cheese, he's eating fuet. polonia is about to start. we just talked to our mom. it's getting warmer. larkin is still in my life. i am craving a fag. i am tired. tomorrow it's friday. some people are free. but most, they're just travelling. i miss the images in my head - yeah, i still believe in them. my neighbors' TV is too loud, it pisses me off. i am glad i am typing something that's not coubication, interconnection, tarif or cost. i wish i could change, and not change, and stay the same but all different. i am flying to chile in a fornight - that's fucking nuts. i'll get a new tat. in hanga roa. the forecast's on: rainy weekend. crap. i am cancer and delirium - nah, that's henry miller. i am poor and aging - just like paul banks back in the 2000s. only i'll be a creepy 30 next month. fuck fuck fuck.

get a life - quit the current one.

*dances to some music*

gris is fighting sleep - so he can be a pain in the ass tonight.