il faut me jurer de m'aimer.

(pierrot le fou taught me that a life of excitement can be so boring.)

i find myself overtame and underjudged. i yearn to make a fool of myself. all of you who constantly see me drunk: expect to see me drunker. i want to know that my friends are whispering behind my back in tones of disapproval. that i break glasses. grab asses. i want that my cheeks know the heat of embarrassment. i want you to have to justify me to people i don't know. "nah, he's all right when the spirits don't gots him."

i think i've forgotten what stories are and how they're told, or that's at least the impression i get from looking back at what i've written here. all fuzz with some minimalist narrative. woke up at the mayor's house; argued with a haughty native american. that was my week. it's all hot air except the dream about s&m incest. which reminds me.

it seems i'm throwing a party and some mean old hag demands that i fetch her some ice cream. i go halfway up the stairs where it's sitting in a big bowl. but in the ice cream is my pet mouse, who is so fat that he's just this perfect sphere with little arms and a face sticking out. he's been eating the ice cream, which worries me because it's chocolate (and because he could catch a cold). i don't have time to tend to him though, because i have to go put together a drumset really fast. which reminds me.

we now have a pet rat named dorothy. the conditions under which i was willing to approve of this adoption are yet to be met.

je ne boirai pas de ton eau.