Um, basically, my life is worth two shits right now. Whatever. But since moving to this place I've been reading more. Thus the fiction has infiltrated my pushover mind and has convinced me of this bullshit fuck ball. Oh, lord ... let's be social and forget our heavenly graces. The end. Now who wants to go on a trip this spring?

I just finished On the road by Kerouac. I should probably read it again, cause often I'd just pretend to read while on the subway. But really, I'd be looking at people out of the corner of my eye... couples, homeless's, weirdos, the beautiful people, and old people. Old people are really weird. C'mon, Right?!

A passage: I was asleep at the time and only heard about it. From then on I carried a big stick with me in the tent in case they got the idea we Mexicans were fouling up their trailer camp. They thought I was a Mexican, of course; and in a way I am. But - (page 97)

The man with bad teeth in 1957

And... the man wrote On the Road on a series of single papers scotched taped together to form a fucking scroll. The scroll is 120 feet. It's on display at the nyc public library. Oh and I think it was partially eaten by a dog.

Some music goods:
"A town called malice", The Jam
"Train from Kansas City", Neko Case
"I move around", Lee Hazlewood

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