buy me riches

when I began my zine I wanted to call it ‘pretending to think’, but I didn’t, yet for some reason that phrase plays in my head sometimes, pops up for one reason or another.

a while ago, I saw this segment on the antique roadshow about a man, old now, who had inhereted a train cart from his grandfather or someone. The cart was large and horribly luxiorious with million dollar china and gold plated seats and a kitchen and sitting room. a smoking room and studio. the train cart had belonged to his horribly rich grandfather who designed it himself. His grandfather would pay the engineers thousands of dollars to allow him to hook his train cart to the back of their train, mostly non passenger trains, and pull him along wherever they were going.

and for some reason, I always think of this too. it appears in my mind out of nowhere and I dwell on the image of the cart and the transactions this man must of made in order to travel around the united states.

If I were rich, I would surely have a private jet I would call upon at midnight to fly me somewhere obscure so I can smoke a joint at the top of a hill I had trouble hiking up. riches must make ones life much more fruitful, for you have the means to experience whatever you wish.

last night, I sat at the table and sipped a few drinks. Jane brought pot and spoke about her heartbreak and hoes. The girlfriend cooked dinner and I played that modest mouse album I cant get away from. the girlfriend is always cooking, Jane is always talking about her heartbreak and hoes, and I am always… drinking I guess.

the scab on my elbow itches on the edges and hurts real bad in the center. I notice it in the mirror and it always surprises me.

I didn’t brush my hair today instead I put a barret in the front to make it look somewhat ruley. I had a drink with vodka in it and wrote some shit on wordpad. I put the dishes in the dishwasher and ate leftovers until now. I cant stop thinking about stuff that makes me think and I cant stop writing about how I cant write and I wish for once forever or whatever that mind could rest and focus on something other than my mind.

I have homework but I’m not doing it. Its not hard or time consuming and I have nothing else to do, but I’m still not doing it.

If I flunk out of a college, promise you wont care.

I wish my friends would stop being stupid and focus on their art instead of going out to clubs and playing cute little relationship games. if they put half as much effort into their art as they do into dating and relating and creating drama to cure boredome, they whould have created some dope ass shit yo.

I focus on things other than people more than most people and what price do I pay for that? less excitement and intrigue and sex and stimulating people, but more things to show. but who will I show if no one is around?

I have ideas but no means to execute them. if only I were rich, if only if only

my humanities teacher said people genrally share 3/10 of themselves with others who in turn will share 3/10 themselves with you. but your art is 9/10 of you speaking to 9/10 of someone else.

so, in essence, this diary is more me than I am. and anyone who reads it knows me better than people I see everyday. and I surely think that is true to the tenth power.

I’m pulling hard to find myself or someshit like that. but I’m always too drunk to care.