What the fuck is Sherry? I ask, reading the label of my scotch bottle.

Everyone kept asking me, “How am I supposed to make it in alt-lit without you?”

and I said, “You’re not.”

Everyone’s always asking me, “What does the famous author’s life look like?”

And I respond, “Well, just like yours, only so much better, in such unexplainable ways.”

Musette calls. She’s like, are you hungry? And I’m like, I’m always hungry. She’s like, don’t bring Charleston with you to pick me up then. But I’m like, he’s crying. so she’s like, ok, bring him then. I’ll just go in and get something. And I was like, Ok.


Make things as easy as you can because there’s no reason for life to be hard.

Google realizes there’s more to the world than the United States.

Scotch and Espresso = the food pyramid.

I wonder if Elliott Smith would dislike always being grouped with Conor Oberst.

Army patients, happy to be injured; playing the game victim style.

They are so powerful, but it does not mean they are good.


Musette tells me her throat has started to hurt. And then her nose starts running. I have a large bump on my neck. When I try popping it, blood comes out.

She wants to get in the bath.

“I think it might help me feel better.” She says. “Do you want to get in with me?” She asks.

“You want to take a bath?” I ask.

It’s one o clock am.


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