Dear Diaries:
Notes To Self:
2 - 24 - 24
In love with all my old scratch friends. Hearts. And those behind giganta-girl, or something of the same subgenre spelled more complicated like. Need to keep decentralising online presence. Keep working on oyster head doll. Kiss friends. Look for a gender consultation from Joey. Manage OCD. Keep writing stories with goldfish as main characters. Promise.
3 - 9 - 24
Found some semblance of manhood in mosh pits. In being flung back and fourth like a rag doll by all these real men three times as big as me. In scraping my kness on the concrete floors and then being pulled uprite by these strangers, repeating the cycle again and again. Its circular, its true. The whole room blend u up, turns you to bits of fruit and thickened pink liquid. And when its good, its damn good.
3 - 10 - 24
Need to write something with toxic waste asap.
3 - 26 - 26
Long time no see.
4 - 4 - 26
Home on the range. I was in St. Louis, alone-ish for a while, all was well with me and my thoughts, all that was associated with them. But coming home is hard, it is for most people. With none of the external stimuli, the sounds of traffic both directions, the sights that come along with being up there, I was alone, for sure this time. It was a test of endurance, all of the skills learned post-breakup applied to extreme circumstances. A teenage bedroom, an old house, alone, no good friend
No sex. Drugs. Wine. Women. Men. Fun. And no you. I did well enough, all things considered. I made a page or so of the zine, wrote some, could have been more. I was there to help fix things, lightbulbs in the kitchen and cars that needed jumpstarted. I ran errands. I was there for old friends. Pool. I smoked inside and drank myself to sleep. Sure. Still, I’ll see you in the morning, St. Louis, and it will be so good to be there again.