Dear Andrew

I am writing this to you because you are the only one who reads my blog, as far as I know. I decided not to make it public, after all. I'm scared. Anyway, there are only three other people who have access to it, and I don't think they pay attention. Those three are:

Kai - My brilliant homeless pirate friend in Venice Beach who is also the only black guy I know who only smokes non-menthols.

Trey - An eccentric guy from Dublin, GA who I never met, even though we had mutual friends, until I moved to LA. He was living in North Hollywood writing screenplays and gave me a blowjob because he was reading a book about some guy giving blowjobs, even though he's straight.

Ricky Lester - We used to be good friends. I wrote my first song about him and played it for a bunch of British chicks at a little bar across from Deano's in Culver City. They loved it. I think they thought I was famous. This was during the first time I was super fucking crazy--right before the French people stalked me with cameras.

So, where to begin. Incidentally, that was a lyric just sung on the Joy Division album I'm currently listening to. I had to end that sentence with a preposition, by the way, because it would've sounded awkward if not. To which I'm currently listening. I don't know.

So I just got back to my parents house. I drove to Dublin to see my friend Cassey because he told me to come, but then he ignored my Facebook messages. So I hung out with Lucy while she worked at Quality Inn. She turned me on to the idea of a tiny house because she just built one for her kid. My parents also mentioned that I could build one in that back yard, but I don't know.

I don't know what I want to do or where I want to go. Or who I want to be, for that matter. So many choices, at least in my mind.

Right now I'm enjoying being stoned and drinking coffee and listening to Joy Division in the back yard. Here, I'll give you a description of my surroundings:

I'm facing the basement entrance--the one that got flooded with poop, originally. There is a bunch of random stuff, including all of my childhood stuffed animals (except for Snuggles). It's all that was salvaged from the deluge of shit.

To my right is the lime-sink I told you about, I think. There's a creek that runs on this side of it. Currently it's filled with trees--very jungle-esque--although before it was filled in with 19th century trash by the college during the War Between the States (TM), I believe it was a sacred body of water to the Creek Indians who had a camp right on this property. A lot of people think the property and our neighbor's house on that side are haunted. It used to be inhabited by Mrs. Martha Ruth Croomes, who was my dad's elementary school teacher. Her daughter stuck her in an old aged home recently--although I think she's dead now--and it's currently being filled with a K-9 cop and his wife.

To the left of where I am sitting is the home belonging to the preacher of the First Baptist Church and his son, with whom I was madly in love a year ago when I was super crazy. One of the last times we were sitting out here smoking and talking, his foot was shaking really fast, and I thought he was trying to give me a sign that I should secretly run down the road really fast and turn into a bird because the world was ending and that was how you became angels.

We cuddled by the creek in the woods by the lime-sink. That was nice, even though mosquitoes were biting the fuck out of us. But at that time I had decided that I shouldn't interfere in other beings' experiences or something, so I let them feed.

Hmm.. I wonder if you're really going to read this.

I miss you, even though your Mercury crosses my Sun.

I feel like I'm in an entirely separate universe from you right now. It's a little sad.

I'm gonna go eat my chicken sandwich and watch Nurse Jackie now.