I have barracaded myself in my house. Complete mind altering altercation. I spent most of last night playing pool with an African named Lee Harvey, he made a triple bank eight ball shot, then I crashed a wedding reception last night in a Corona T-shirt and flip flops. I am supposed to be in the army now, i didn't go this weekend, I'm awol, but that's okay. I never really saw myself as a soldier anyway. I'm placing couches by doors and window. I sent my roommate jeremy out to get burritos from the little mexican shop on the corner, he will be the one that periodically goes out for goods, we bought cleaning supplies yesterday, we'll be just fine with burritos and cleaning supplies. We may need more beer and pot.


Tuesday's are indeed taco days but i don't know if we'll make it that far. I'm never leaving the house again without a concrete reason, concrete like a foundation. It's hot and it's only two o'clock in the afternoon. I got another check from Powell's bookstore which makes me think about writing more in the second book, but it takes me to a bad place. I had to 'talk' to Sarah last night, it didn't help that i was inebriated, alas there is no real talk about writer's women, all that is ever said is that writers always have beautiful women, maybe we're shallow?

It's dark, too dark for the afternoon and i have no clue where my burrito is. The canvas is staring at me and my shirt is dirty. I should take a shower and shave. the cat's are fighting, that is the way of life.