March 2011
3 posts
I’m sitting in front of a laptop eating a bowl of scooby-doo noodles. The only thing that comes to mind is the crooked Spanish lady who threatened to get me fired for not giving her a receipt. She kinda turned me on. But why the hell did I choose to become a writer?
Hank Moody. Obviously. But writing doesn’t get you laid.
I walk, I talk, and I write. And I wouldn’t trade it for...
Hmm..
Had a conversation with a guy high on cocaine. He sounded like my roommate drunk. Except his pupils were the size of a dime. Writing about drugs is one thing, but seeing it in action is way more fierce. I thought partying like a rock star was cool. But man, that guy was fucked. I think I’ll stick to confiding in my ex-alcoholic priest.
“You smell. Like grated cheese. I think I’m in love. Please don’t...”