I ought to write more.

I’m having some problems with my shoulder that are feeling more like actual problems than “faggotry”. I wish I could just go in to a doctor and have him start with one end and work his way all the way up and give me pills and stretches so everything would get fixed.

Of course, what would he do to fix my heart?

I sometimes get uncomfortable at parties where there seems to be people who can help your career. In fact, I become belicose pretty quick. I also seem to have a deep and abiding dislike for most people who share the exact same passions I do, and I’m not sure why. I can sit down across from someone who has a passion for producing and acting much like mine and realize I have *nothing* to say to them.

I also tend to have more disrespect for decorum than most artistic people I know. I don’t feel things as keenly, or rather am pretty unaware of how keenly other people feel things, so I generally say something to alienate someone. Which is nice.

I said, what would he do to fix my heart?

Spiderman Two was just fine, but I’d like to go to no more movies in fucking Queens. The burroughs are starting to weigh on me. I don’t want kids around me anymore. Little kids are fine, but I don’t want to have to put up with assholes like me. If 34 year old me could see 16 year old me, I’d hope I’d kick my ass, and I mean it the other way. It’d be cool to punch myself in the face and watch 18 year old scars appear under my eyes.

My Ipod brings me great joy. More joy than a doctor would, I believe.

Okay. Lame update, I know, but I’ll post more tomorrow, seriously.