my writing has been stalled as of late due to busy schedules and soiled environment.
i need the notes pinned to the walls! i need the music making stupid, sick love to my eardrums! i need myself a big fucking office with a huge desk made of a fine oak that i can graffiti it with little S & M's and Punk Rockers smell Queer.

grand. i think so.

if i could survive december in a hotel by myself with the basic cable channels running non-stop and a fairly clean bathroom with that little chalky bar of soap and fresh sheets perhaps i could write the stuff i want. i'm trapped in a palace of flies and cat-shit cocoon.

oh you, Wilford Brimley. eat your diabetes.
whine whine whine.

maybe I will make my debut on the cover of the National Enquirer after I win Family Feud--my teammates are not my family but a group of heroin addicts and Mensa members. interesting television. I'll demand the return of Richard Dawson. I'll french-kiss him and anger the censors. I'll appear on the tabloid beside Lance Bass and Ryan Seacrest's love child who has fourteen toes.

fucking possibilities are endless. i'll be famous someday. just watch.

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in other, much greater news...

26 sleeps.

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in two weeks i will be in Vegas. i may win a million dollars. really, i just want to goose Wayne Newton.

good times on the strip.

bye for now!