I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about not typing...

What little writing that I do now is for other people. In the last couple of years, I've written DJ bios, Blargh content, worked on other people's plays, student films, funeral rites, parking-ticket legalese, Vietnamese Pho Menus and Dr. Who action figure catalogues, etc.

I am a shitty writer. Really. A hack. But it sucks because I do the I-Am-A-Shitty-Writer-Really-A Hack-But-It-Sucks-Because-I-Do-The-I-Am-A-Shitty-Writer-Really-A-Hack-But-It-Sucks-Because-I-Do-The-I-Am-A-Shitty-Writer-Really-But-It-Sucks-Stuff.

Because...Shit, It's been a bit strange, Strangers.

I'm in my backyard right now. Typing on the laptop in the dark. Afraid of Avacados falling on my head. My head is tick-tocking back and forth like a Metronome. I want to get drunk and to put down every single, fucking, goddamn thing before it's too late.

It's not about the amount of hours passing and pissing away anymore
but
It's all about the amount of time not creating and writing about
What's here
and not anymore.

The bulk of my writing that I do now will be only for me.

A shark jumped the shark a long time time ago...

ratings are low
but this show will never be canceled
never

Chess. Smoke. Poem. Soda Pop. Jeanette Walls. Smoke. Hulu/Nova.com = Sleestak-hissing sleep.

Fat Free Milk

Meet Me (1996 Notebook)

There's a sad song on
no one to read this
and only one person to write it

as long as I live
I will never give up
I'll still laugh
and even
in poverty and poetry
I'll still know more
and be
more aware of things
than all of you

I'm just waiting
and am tired
       of fighting
       the invisibles
that only I
       can see

Samuel Twain And Stephen Bachman...

Exiting Wormholes at the same time =