I am sitting here naked reading What We Do Is Secret by Thorn Kief Hillsbery and feeling so moved and inspired. This isnt a fucking great book. Its a fucking fucking fucking unbelievable great fucking book.
Last night I heard from my agent. MY AGENT, it feels so good to say that. Shes very interested in Bound To Die Young, a semi-autobiographical novel, which I am sending to her once she has returned from Germany.
This is something else Im working on, Boys Town. Its semi-autobiographical, too, whatever the hell that means. Its fiction. No its not.
(November. It May Never Go Away)
Its so cold that friends I know with nowhere else to go are trying to get arrested. Its not that hard. Beet-faced cops are jolly to help out. Lately theyve been hounding a few kids hanging out at punkin doughnuts in front of the Alley.
Jack calls it the old nightstick oppression.
Tonight we cant go back to my place. My sister has banned Jack from our home because he has pneumonia. He is yellow, as if dusted by a fine layer of pollen. He doesnt want to stay at the shelter. He says theres an outbreak of scabies. We could spend the night at the flower shop where I work but it has roaches and Sara, this freckled faced Australian lady I work for, just sighs when I bring it up.
What can ya do? Its Chi-Town, its a filthy city.
Filth normally begins with laziness but I leave it alone.
I dont want to be without Jack. He is all I know of love. He makes me feel safe. He smells like the sun because it has been his only shelter for so long.
I make five dollars an hour. Its 1996, thats minimum wage. I have my way of making ends meet. Eventually the day will come when I leave for my lunch break and never return. Ill pretend Im still working. Ill lie to my sister and spend eight hours a day at a coffee shop pressing my fingers against sticky sugar stains on a warn wooden table, waiting until the lie is over. It never is. Eventually Ill shed of any hope until Im living like Jack, with no where to sleep. With insomnia anyway. With antidepressants clogging my blood because therapists keep their advice in a bottle now.
Fuck. Its cold.
Id kill to be able to switch over to a dream therapist. Id kill to be able to dream.
"gonna live forever.........."
Last night I heard from my agent. MY AGENT, it feels so good to say that. Shes very interested in Bound To Die Young, a semi-autobiographical novel, which I am sending to her once she has returned from Germany.
This is something else Im working on, Boys Town. Its semi-autobiographical, too, whatever the hell that means. Its fiction. No its not.
(November. It May Never Go Away)
Its so cold that friends I know with nowhere else to go are trying to get arrested. Its not that hard. Beet-faced cops are jolly to help out. Lately theyve been hounding a few kids hanging out at punkin doughnuts in front of the Alley.
Jack calls it the old nightstick oppression.
Tonight we cant go back to my place. My sister has banned Jack from our home because he has pneumonia. He is yellow, as if dusted by a fine layer of pollen. He doesnt want to stay at the shelter. He says theres an outbreak of scabies. We could spend the night at the flower shop where I work but it has roaches and Sara, this freckled faced Australian lady I work for, just sighs when I bring it up.
What can ya do? Its Chi-Town, its a filthy city.
Filth normally begins with laziness but I leave it alone.
I dont want to be without Jack. He is all I know of love. He makes me feel safe. He smells like the sun because it has been his only shelter for so long.
I make five dollars an hour. Its 1996, thats minimum wage. I have my way of making ends meet. Eventually the day will come when I leave for my lunch break and never return. Ill pretend Im still working. Ill lie to my sister and spend eight hours a day at a coffee shop pressing my fingers against sticky sugar stains on a warn wooden table, waiting until the lie is over. It never is. Eventually Ill shed of any hope until Im living like Jack, with no where to sleep. With insomnia anyway. With antidepressants clogging my blood because therapists keep their advice in a bottle now.
Fuck. Its cold.
Id kill to be able to switch over to a dream therapist. Id kill to be able to dream.
"gonna live forever.........."
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Got your shopping done? I sent off my package to Australia, but I still have to shop for the stay at homes.