Thanks for Playing

Sometimes I read what I write and I know it won’t make any fucking sense to anyone but me. I drink espresso but I actually really hate it. I used to care about what coffee tasted like. But that was a waste of time. Something completely bitter. That’s what we need. And I only enjoy drinking out of flimsy looking paper cups. Because it all tastes the same in the back of the mouth. It’s all the same when we have 3. It’s all the same in the red light morning.

All I remember about Paris are the side streets, the Taschen bookstore, the graffitied train tracks. The quiet unimportant things. That’s my problem – I am always taken by the unimportant things. And those things don’t mean much to anyone but me. And I trip myself up trying to explain it. So I don’t bother trying anymore.

I’ve been in this city for 8 months now and it still won’t give me a skyline. It still can't compare to that city I've never been to. I genuinely believed that I wouldn’t be here. But then again, I genuinely believe a lot of things which I shouldn’t believe in.

It’s so fucking ridiculous. I’m so fucking ridiculous.

There’s a very strange feeling inside of me and I don’t know what exactly to do about it…because I don’t even know what it is. What do I do? Just keep writing…that’s all I’m going to do. Eventually, I’m going to write it all out.

Let’s wipe it all clean. Let’s wipe it all white. And then let’s start again.

And when you start to get tired, Let it Be.

(Downtown, Los Angeles)

Let's Play the Number Game

Let’s begin at 10. I didn’t see it coming.

And to be honest, it’s really been better. It was a difference of 20 and I was 16 back then. It only lasted for 3 days and because of that, I actually contemplated moving to 550. I’m a fucking loser. But whatever. “Forever” turned out to be 8. So I guess no one plans these things.

Well, I wasted 6. I thought 12 was good. I thought 12 was really good. Because 5 came by…and even though it must’ve been -25 degrees, it really didn’t matter at all. And sometimes, the day would go by and we’d find out that we had 8, we had 13, one day we even had 16 I think. Or maybe I’m just making these up. I still tell people that it took us 6 hours. It's still a little funny to me. Like I said, I thought 12 was good. And people told me I was crazy, because it’d take at least 21 days. I knew it was crazy. But I didn’t give a shit, because I thought 12 was good.

Big Mistake.

Turns out, no one gives a damn about waiting up for 11. Sorry, let me rephrase…no one remembers about waiting up for 11. It cost 2.50? Well, the 3 I got were only 1.99…I think the wrapping paper cost more than that. And when we got back, I gave back 20 because we said we would. I always liked to halve things.

The 2nd rolled along. The 2nd scared me a little. I guess, somewhere at the back of my mind, I knew it would happen…so on the 4th, I took the 1st. And pretty much, every day since then it’s been 4 or 5. Horrible. But really, believe me – it’s only because I knew it would happen. Not because I’m a bad person.

I actually didn’t want 14 to happen. I mean, I did…but I didn’t. When was it supposed to start? And I kept looking to see if it was close to 8.30 so I could see what would happen. Last year, 14 was 8 months. How ironic. Personally, I thought it was great stuff, I really did. But I guess I was the only one. Because 15 stopped. And I tried again on 18 but I felt like I was being cut off. So I stopped altogether.

1 week. 2 weeks.

Then something strange. 3 at night. Of course. I realize that 21 days wasn’t going to happen. Better plan for the 15th instead. I think I went up to 8 that night. I really needed 8 that night.

3 weeks. 4 weeks.

At the end of 3, 32 happened. I hate thinking about it. And my hands don’t feel right when I do. But why am I complaining? It used to be a difference of 15, of 20. Why do I care? 4 and 5 were not my friends at all. Definitely not 4. 4 screwed me over big time. And I even gave up 28 because I just couldn’t. That day, I stayed until 6 something and definitely took more than 8. Some time after, I went out and broke it into 7. Funnily enough, I didn't really feel much.

And recently, I’ve had 35. What the fuck? You know what the funny thing is? I was asked to do 2…but for 2 nights in a row, it was more than 5. Oh yes, and by the way, 43 things we still haven’t done. Fuck that…43 things that will never get done. 43 things that aren’t plastered on the wall because 43 things are nothing.

But still, none of it makes sense to me. Half of mine. I thought 12 was good.


(Here's another Sunday Morning Call)

I Never Was...

I know I said I hated it. But I do it anyways. Because it keeps me from getting sick sometimes. Because I hate Santa Monica. Because I cringe every time I see a red car.

And my head won’t stop thinking about 11pm. It won’t stop thinking about a box of plates, or a box of cups, or a box of something you’d have to pick up 30 minutes later. How inconvenient. But really, ever since last year, I’ve wanted to see what Chicago looks like at 6am.

Don't trust the telephone.

Maybe there’s a problem when my fingers smell like breakfast cereal all the time. But like I said, I do it anyways.

And when I think more about it, I can’t.


I really did enjoy the Yoshida Brothers.