I always forget how clumsy I am because I don’t care in the moment. I’m always breaking things. Bottles, expensive electronics, stranger’s fingers…and hearts. I’m a sweet, gentle, misunderstood soul trapped in the body of an awkward manchild! Just like every other guy! Maybe I’m just saying that so girls will think I’m complicated and fuck me so they can understand me! Apparently my penis is the puzzle key. It’s the last piece in the jigsaw. Whatever. It’s people who bring out the worst in me. I have a love/hate relationship with people. Sometimes I think I’m that hard-case hell-bent-for-leather drugsucking alco-writer with a touch of the old school old hollywood charm, then I remember I’m a loud nerd who talks too fast and has a puzzled look on his face most of the time. It’s because I’m always wondering where the coffee is. Or the booze. Or both.
Dorks and geeks are fine in this day and age, though. Even the hot girls have librarian glasses. Girls with pornstar bodies get pokemon tattoos. No creature deserves to be on trial here — let’s save the scorn for the over-thirty creeps who frequent the bar beneath my hotel. Men and women. Cougars and other jungle cats. They keep listening to “99 Luftballoons” and other questionable hits like that. I guess if you haven’t fallen into marriage after a certain point your whole mindset gets iffy. Everyone but me is engaged and pregnant these days. Wait! Oh my god, you guys! I’m pregnant! That explains the mood swings. And my ass.
Half of all my writing lately is pretentious as hell and the other half is me waving a wand around going “c’mon, you magic bastards, get in line”.
And I wonder how many tom-girls who get told they’re Just One Of The Guys actually think that, and how many are smart enough to know guys are lying because they don’t know how else to relate to them, but still want to fuck them. Sorry, ladies. Sorry, guys. Sorry, Jesus.
I feel very poised and very mobile lately. I want to move to Oakland and save a shitload of money and then move somewhere else and try a new life. I love San Francisco but I hate California — it’s a strange dichotomy. I found someone had written “search” on my bookmark while I was in the bathroom the other day. Or maybe it was always there and I wasn’t ready to notice. Ooh. Charting new territory — eastern philosopher at work. Black is white. Up is down. Boom, you’re enlightened. That’ll be 10.99 plus tax.
Even the sober people are drunk.