Cutting up jackpots. Finding my marks. Eating pills comma dope so I can go to sleep and dream about that night we fucked behind your friend's house, in the backyard while they finished dinner. When I dream about it now this time no one comes outside to ruin it for us. Or ask us to explain. Or ask you to introduce me. I wake up in summertime bright blue light pouring in. So day it hurts that's how much. I sleep with the windows open flies circling the air around my bed. I can't believe you, you're like a sick joke.
F4riday night I shot a tv show with Cole and Jeffery. Saturday night I had my reading and it went really well, I think. Sunday night. Lauren Wilkinson reading at the Pleasure Chest's erotica reading.
Brandon and Tommy watching her read.
more nights, I guess. They won't why should I stop. I'm systematically pulling out every tiny pit of protection. It's so easy to say you're sweet and put down your swords. It's so simple to unload a gun. It's a lot easier. It's like the joke Tommy made yesterday in how we trust our friends "Everyone starts with an A. Anyone can get an A. The trick is to keep your A." Anyone can stop fighting. Anyone can decide not to throw a punch. To keep it to themselves. What I'm working on is the other half of fighting which means dismantling armor and putting shields down and getting off of my horse and out of my boots. Naked towards the spears I know will come and I can whistle the same tune as arrows bullets your friends' jokes.
I'm aware. I know. I get it.