I forgot this was here. And, like finding a dead friends photograph, all I can think about doing, really, is to hold it.

 Me:  Are you choking?
Anna:  No, how do you make a sheep noise?  Baaaaaa.
Both:  *laughter*
Sherman, from the other room:  You guys quit having fun and get dressed!
Anna:  But there's a sheep in here!
Sherman:  Where?
Anna:  Baaaaaaa.

This is the real reason why the Slusarczyk girls need two hours to get ready for a party.

Get your head out of the mud, baby.  Put flowers in the mud, baby.

The well is empty.

I think Peter VanDerHaagen hung himself while I was away.

All of these things are the right choice.

Because there's no such thing as right and wrong.

Just is.

I think after Tennessee, I might fall off the face of the earth for a while.
Which translates to, give me your address of wherever you'll be for the summer.
I have letter writing written into my schedule. 

It has reached this point.
If you put a trash can on the porch, I'm going to have someone photograph your chin up bar being used as a sex swing.

...And also get my dirty footprints all over the fucking wall.

My rage has to go somewhere, and all I write is love poetry.

The other day:
A nails shift.
Of five men
Only my grandfather
Stayed. 

The abolition of the subjunctive.
The implication of the imperative.

Poetry, again.
There hasn't been a poem in months.

 I am fucking sick of this fucking bullshit.
The end.
No fucking more.