Sometimes I don’t want to. It’s a blog. It’s not my diary. It’s lazy shit writing strewn together in subtle impersonal mysteries.
Sometimes I’ve taken way too many drugs and drank too, too much and feel so hungover and resolute about staying in bed or stretched out on the lawn or trapped on a never-ending subway journey to Brooklyn and I can’t be obligated to do this.
I had a friend who used to be tied to his blog. He told me he stopped it because it became this near-obsession, like a child that he constantly needed to feed. It was a chore. It was messy and complicated, like a bad marriage.
There is no reason for this to dissolve into that.
But I love posting poetry. And music!
You all love poetry and music, don’t you? No? You just say you do, but you prefer watching E! True Hollywood Stories? Here’s the door. I’m going to roast outside and go to Shake Shack and throw french fries at pigeons.