all i needed was a simple hello

I'm sitting on the balcony of a 1920s era mansion that's slowly falling apart, where I have a perfect, unobstructed view of some of the most beautiful scenery in the Hollywood Hills. It feels like Italy, other than the huge glowing cross that an alleged Christian cult erected on a peak in the distance.

I just finished crying my eyes out while singing "All Cried Out" to myself. I was crying for various reasons. Firstly, I found out today that my dad most likely has cancer in his lungs and lymph nodes. It hasn't fully hit me yet, but I can feel it building. Secondly, I got off the phone with Christophe. I wanted him to come over so bad to hold me and comfort me and tell me everything is going to be alright in his cute little French accent. But he says he has a stomach ache. He also said that it was a bad idea to get attached to him, although he does want to hang out tomorrow night in Little Tokyo with me and Clementine.

I have an interview tomorrow in the Valley. I was contacted by a lady who wants me to be in a reality show hosted by a fairly infamous rapper. She said it's supposed to be like the Apprentice, and that there is a large cash prize to be given away to the winner, but I'm sure they're just looking for a scared, naive country boy from Georgia like me to exploit.

I have enough money for a one-way ticket back home. I don't know what to do. I hate this town, but I can't get enough of it.

Life is scary.

Do I look like a fucking hooker to you?

I was walking down Fairfax today, and some skinny old man in a VW Rabbit convertible tried to buy me.

Perhaps it's something in the air, but ever since I've been here, I can't help but to envision my life as a screenplay.

Colleen left today. It's for the best--she was miserable here. I, on the other hand, was miserable, but am now hopeful. I met a boy. His name is Christophe, and he's from France. He's classy, but not arrogant, which I like. We spent the day yesterday at Hermosa Beach. It was one of the most amazing times I've had. Also, I may have a job at Sony. Two great reasons to stay.

Please pray that I learn how to use the bus system very, very soon. My feet are killing me.

I just realized that the length of my sentences is inversely proportionate to my level of happiness.

Rage on a Thursday Night

Tonight I made out with three different boys on the dance floor at a club in West Hollywood. I don't remember any of their names.

There would've been a fourth, but I told him no, and I proceeded to dance with myself with my eyes closed. For those few moments I felt the best I had in ages.

When I'm driving along Sunset Boulevard, I like to roll down the windows and blast the Dresden Dolls or Two Ton Boa--both excellent bands. I do it because I have this secret desire that one day someone will hear it and tell me to pull over so they can get to know the person who listens to such interesting music, a rarity in these parts. But I'm pretty sure that day will never come.

I suppose I really just want to be loved for who I am--not for what I appear to be. That's a difficult thing in the gay culture, because most people are attracted to superficial beauty only. Well, I suppose that isn't entirely true. If you're old and your beauty has faded, the only thing left to advertise is either your wealth or personality. Unfortunately, I'm still considered young, and I am not attracted to men twice my age.

Today I smoked some of the best marijuana I've ever smoked in my entire life. I wrote a song, and realized that I could actually be creative. Colleen and I decided that it didn't matter where we lived, that we would be miserable unless we were stoned. I'm going to look into the medical marijuana thing if I decide to stay.

This blog was brought to you by two Dos Equis, a shot of Jose, two Southern Comfort and Cokes, and a few sips of some unknown drink belonging to random make-out guy number two.

From a Hollywood Bathroom

I guess it all started when I lived with my parents after the last time I fucked up my life. My dad had a lung operation years ago, and while he understood how necessary cigarettes were for my sanity, he couldn't bear the smell of smoke in the house. So, I would sit in the basement bathroom with the shower on and pretend that the steam would somehow mask the odor. He knew every time, but I was convinced that one day my plan would work, and the little particles of carcinogens would magically attach themselves to the droplets of steam and waft off to anywhere but my father's nostrils. My mother always warned me that if I didn't stop, he would get upset.

My dad was in Vietnam, where he developed a severe case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (which wasn't discovered until twenty years later) from witnessing and contributing to the deaths of hundreds of innocent human beings. Because of this, he had a tendency to turn to physical violence when faced with stressful situations. Looking back, I was such the instigator. I always loved to play the victim.

Anyway, I find enormous comfort now sitting in bathrooms with the shower running. I know it's wasteful, but it's worth it. The noise seems to shield me from the rest of the world. Time stands still, and I can cope with life, or rather the lack thereof. Unfortunately, when people start to question my behavior, I freak out and try to replace it with something else. Right now, that something else is Ativan. I have two left. I'm saving one for the flight back home.