Ian S. is sitting on my couch trying to convince me - and we are in a state of easily being convinced - that I'm responsible for his women problems, and I'm worrying he's turning more into Woody Allen by the day, or Spencer Pratt if Ian kept up his loud boisterous way of talking and Spencer Pratt did more downers. He's trying to convince me I'm a cheater and a bad person because I didn't transition seamlessly from euro-traveling singleton to whatever I am now and I'm telling him to chill, motherfucker, chill. "Ian, I'm about to lay some hippie shit on you." "You're about to blow my mind! I really wanna here the hippie shit!"
It wasn't that good. The thorough discussion entertaining the possibility of my mother having a crush on me was far more enlightening.
Things are what we want them to be. 6 hours in South Park and Watson Library thoroughly notating The Subterraneans will teach you that. You want Mardou Fox to be crazy, to be a slutty limitless free-fucking dance of deep sea darkness? You want to blame it on race or drugs or women having "the essence"? You make what you want of things, Leo-Jack and Ian.'
I realized that most of what's going on right now doesn't even matter, which isn't quite helping my depression, but numbers have no feelings and they're the best thing to cling to right now, my number line, my security cable. 10 days. 17 days. 43 days. 60 days. End of the year, free fall
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