found out about the suicide of charlotte, mark de la viña's friend, on the way to see eddie izzard.

i was so bored in the audience, i thought going to the bathroom and staring at the cat would be more fascinating. all the promise of all the most amazing talent in the world ends up shtick and running for his life as his sexuality got left back in the gutter somewhere.

eddie izzard is hot. was hot. i fall for anyone who's fighting for their own special little corner.

a full audience bored enough with their own lives to watch the tedious litany of a type a ambitious man's schedule. he wants to run for mayor of london in a few years?

is life just a fucking "bucket list"?

yeah. i'm having a hard time staying in the game.

now i really see why i never had children of my own. i didn't worry i'd run over them like louise nevelson (women artist stories were our cautionary tales... artemesia gentileschi... ay!), but i worried i'd be overtaken by my maternal instinct that would turn me into a capp street whore in ten minutes if i thought it'd get me food to feed her.

the only time i started to reconsider and falter was when it was for james or "women." ugh. girls who didn't know what the fuck this was all really about. what was on the line.

anyhow, i used to be on this crusade to keep everyone okay and alive and here. i'd put aside my own terrors and loneliness to try and pick someone else up.

i feel a lot like i did when i was a kid regarding my sex drive and darker and sweeter more playful sexuality, but also that i figured the game out the first time around.

you don't make it out alive or intact when you're born like this.

you check yourself and try to find a bigger reason. the long game. i'm always about the long game now in everything.

i'm scared because i feel like something cracked. broke. i think of pink floyd's wall. everytime i think the wall is down, there's another one to be breached. a thicker one. a more impassable one.

anyhow, you live for the long game when it's like this. you'll probably get broken or the lobotomy, so you live for yourself, for life, for the children.. .meaning, WHOEVER COMES NEXT.

be it a little oliver or a big indian called "chief" who finally realizes crashes the sink through the window and runs free.

i'm sorry i can't write back. i'm beyond being polite and returning tupperware anymore. i may look like a regular woman, a girl, but treat me with the respect of a white guy who needs to be alone and not say a thing to anyone even if spoken to.

that was the coolest thing. i learned it from brad wyman. i hated it, but thought it was a brilliant way from keeping people suck on you like vampires draining a goat.

i'm beyond "polite." i'm trying to find a way of keeping my promise to james, and sticking around and not doing anything foolish with a motorcycle that accidentally swerves into the oncoming grill of an oncoming truck on highway one.

i get why big red jumped her bike off the cliffs, but i'm too vain to want to end up impaled on a tree instead, bloated from days hidden from view.

there is no fucking happy ending when you live like this. all you can do is hang in as long as you can, and pass it on.

that's what this is.

so whatever you need to do to stick it out, or not, i wish you all the best.

i'm only 44 and sticking around to my 70s like that palm reader once "warned" me about sounds interminable.

i love people theoretically but actually feel like most are eichmanns and nurse ratcheds.

yeah. i'm out of love with my audience. the "Feminists" and the liberal white people who think listening to NPR in the morning in the car is an act of kindness.

it's not enough to know shit.

stop being pussies. it's making life hell for the rest of us you watch like dancing monkeys with chains on our ankles.

james was faltering on the blow job issue. this is where you guys get all "technical." wars and divorces happen in these "technicalities."

face REALITIES.

so james really likes this girl. surprised it's been four dates and is shocked he's not banging her already (he was joking because that's what he thinks it's like here in san francisco).

he argued with me with a tent growing in his pants because he can't hear me say the word or imply it without getting aroused, but he was able to AGREE with me through his hard on when i stated:

"you have to think about the future. we're odd friends. any woman you're with will NEED to know:
'when did you two stop messing around?' and you want to be able to say witih a straight fucking face: 'we stopped as soon as i met you.'"

THAT'S romantic.

there's no romance in technicalities. only realities. actualities. then it's not really "romantic" then, is it? it's reality!

this is how i fucking LIVE. it's hell. but so much more fucking SIMPLE than this cubicle hell you all live in.

and you can't jerk off to cubicles. you can't even jerk off IN cubicles with how everyone can see your screen, so you've gotta look at porn with an instant plan for your mom coming in your bedroom.

this is what we wanted to grow up to be?

what kind of fucking 40 year old superhero has to hide his or her porn?

i'd give you all some of the stuff i've been jerking off to, but it's been a lot of real life now and finally.

my goal is to totally be off the internet and email and live an analog life if i've gotta stick around a little longer.

as brad wyman said, "you will never be as young as you are today. fuck 'em all while you can."

god i love that quote. he's another example of the wrong fucking people being artists. produces mattress humpers like rifkin, when rifkin should be his fucking PA.

life is funny. hang in for the long haul. fuck art. i'm not making your sofa art.

i'm gonna fuck myself up and flat like toothpaste and leave a whole lot of mad indians crashing on in my wake.

i no longer believe there's any winning in the short run. i don't care about art. movies. books. ugh. books used to be the salvation of the thinkers.

now they're run by great gatsby people who write 7 steps gatsby stories.

this is what happens when your art is only made by the rich.

lead yourselves through this desert.

i'm gonna fuck myself and fall in love senselessly. that's all that matters.

i only want strangers. if you've read this or know me or who i am, i'll know.

i always know.

because the moment i write something down, i move on. i don't do it anymore because before i wrote it down, i didn't even know what i was doing. hard to explain.

but it's part of feeling like many people "run" you inside.

the actual me really is a fat shmata salesman who lives for lunch, when he can eat a hero sandwich with lots of extra onions and not care about kissing anyone again because i'm beyond it.

i'll get there.

but i'm not there yet.

yet.

for now i'm going to leave everyone to themselves and fuck like i'm 13 and have a lifetime of amazing lovers to bite.

a good man is so not hard to find. it's like a full apple tree out there for me because women like lap dancing for corpses now. they leave the meat dogs to rot, but i brush them off and breathe life back into them.

they're the only ones who can fuck until you leave your name engraved in the plaster walls.

and that is all that matters to me anymore.

i can't come back from the broken hearts like i used to.

i'm the old girl now.

x