started first on the couch, which is pretty normal. then woke up at 4am and went to the bed. i have a freaky life. i dont get it.

on one hand there are people who dont even know me who love me. thats nice freaky. then i have people who know me pretty well who dont like me at all, who want me to be sad. thats creepy freaky. then i have people who know me super super well who love me and will love me forever.

so guess who i think about at 4:20am, the girls who send me pictures who dont know me? the friends ive had forever? the people im dying to meet?

no, i think about the haters.

i think about bush and rush and drudge and incubus.

whats wrong with me.

i see that at 6am im still awake and i think about how much writing i could be doing. something i love.

but i dont do that either, i sit in my bed, electric blanket off to motivate me to get up, and i listen to howard stern and guess who he’s thinking about.

rush.

we’re all crazy.

tim blair at this wedding last month came up to me and said that i will be a millionaire in a few years and the crazy thing is i agreed with him. but the crazier thing is i dont care about no million dollars. i care about proving the haters wrong at my low paying job. i care about rock radio playing tsar even though theyre way too good for rock radio.

i care about being liked. even to people who i confront. even to people i dont confront. even to people who no way would ever like me. even to people who have every reason to love me but harden their own heart.

i care about writing well. i care about writing books. and instead of just turning off the tv and the stereo and the phone and writing novels, i go out to fatburger with hotties and get sad when they leave, and then aol chat with strangers and dont write on the blog and dont update the website and dont write the sex novel and dont read and dont study and dont talk to writers about writing.

i lay there and age.

ungracefully.

today im going to take the subway to the subway to the bus to the bus and it will all be free because they want to say thank you for your patronage during the strike.

i live in los angeles where one is defined by their vehicle.

i ride the bus.

then i blog about it.

and then i stay up at night and wonder why people dont get me.

appalachia alumni assc. + right over there + britcoal + but is it art