I spent this last week working the shit out of myself. I saw your reflection in my reflection and I passed out on the floor with blood boiling in my brain. I don't think my body is in its best shape. I'm feeling pains in parts of my body: my back, my feet. I fucked your sister last week. It was her idea. I don't know why I just said that. I probably just made that up. Anyway I've been working on these things, these publishing things, and feeling like I have a purpose in life again. You know that might be the thing the war takes out of you, your purpose, your direction. That might be what the war won't let you bring back. Who knows?
Just before you come back around, I'm sure that I'll be all set up and fancy with some decent bird. I'm sure that everything will be great just then, and then you'll call or show up on the doorstep, and I'll just know that it's over again, that I'm about to lose my mind again. Or maybe this time things will go differently.
After a few months, I can have Third Eye Blind back.
Anyway, I was thinking about you a little tonight. I wanted to do a thing on the facebook or something but it always feels a bit less than real. As does this. As does everything. I wrote a story yesterday. No lie. Nope, I'm keeping this one under my name. Because fuck it and fuck them, yeah? Probably a lot of those people don't even know what love is or feel the need to demand the right to have something to stay up late talking about.
I'm still buying that house I showed you. Fuck your father and the banking system of America, but I'm going to buy that house I told you about. And then I'm going to buy a new car and then I'm going to marvel at what a fucking citizen I suddenly am. And then probably we'll find a way to throw it all away together. Little powder here, little stupid there; we're never any good until we've fallen off the chair.