There is human feces smeared on the outside of our dorms, like pound in cake, and I am starving. Some one stepped in it earlier and I laughed. Yesterday I threw a rotten watermelon out of the window and into the street. We have no milk in our fridge but we have a hunk of brie.
I have three bug bites on my right ankle. Yesterday I stuck papers into envelopes for two hours. I now understand Bukowski. I ordered 70 dollars worth of records. My record player is at my house, along with my good typewriter, and a sewing machine.
I ate a carton of potato salad.
For lunch the other day I had a candy bar, a pop, a bag of chips, and a cigarette. How very American of me.
I have smoked hashish in Marseille, along with Paris, and Ventimiglia Italy. I am waiting for a book in the mail. I have gotten several letters from my friend in Cleveland. In them, she accuses me of forgetting "my roots", of becoming a different person, and of having too much fun.
None of these things are true. I have not written anything back because I need envelopes.
There is blood on my bathroom floor, and I know what it is, but it's not mine.
I go through a 30-pack of Miller Highlife a weekend.
I rarely share.
In high school, I spent three years in the darkroom, now I won't have time to be there.
This is my lost year, our trash can overflows.
We are dirty.
Whenever I smoke, my right eye socket hurts. I am getting a new tattoo, and it is contrived. Some one sandpapered my arm earlier. I rode my bike this weekend, but the one way streets confused me.
So I gave up.
I need medicine. I like to think I write like machines.
All I can see when I look out our windows is brick and a flag.
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These random snippets make up my life. Everything means nothing. Nothing is everything.
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