sometimes i feel like building a birdhouse out of snowmen?s arms and little kids? sleds and waiting until the cutest bird of the cutest birds, baby hummingbirds, land in it. then i feel like eating. rampaging. i feel like grabbing little baby hummingbirds and whapping them on homeless peoples' dingy rotting headdresses. i?m not sure why i?m like this, how i turned out like this, which way i went to end up here, like this. this. i wouldn?t mind to wake up and find myself in my own bed. i wouldn?t mind to wake up and throw the sheets off ? awake sweaty and refreshed and relieved to find myself here, again. there, again. i wouldn?t mind to find the answers that shut my head off, again. something besides this, again.

life is too good, sometimes. life is too rich, sometimes. life here is here, sometimes. sometimes i feel like i don?t know. anything. i feel like anything. like destructing. like razing, raving running mad like an unravelling homeless man -- whapping myself in the head. i wonder how it is to sleep in the rain under a bridge. to pull your sopping wet coat even closer, warding off the dampdeadstiffening air. life is so beautiful sometimes, without that fucking f life becomes a lie. sometimes i feel like lying all the time and testing the regulators. turning knobs at random. this is my life on channel seven. weather. this is my life on channel nine. comedy in semi-fashionable retro tight fitting clothing. this is my life on channel 35, pornography. channel 58, dolphin training. channel 67, joan crawford.

megan and i are very happy. i am very happy. it doesn?t seem fair, sometimes. i feel like bragging. am i bragging? i must be because here i am typing about it. i am floating through all of this time wondering if i?m insane to be so fearful and so neglectful of myself to ignore everything else i?ve dragged myself through. i?m in bed next to this incredible, beautiful, smart and lovely girl and as she?s sleeping with the warmth of her back against my knee i?m staring at the ceiling wondering when that homeless bird bashing creature will wake up, when i?ll smash through that glass and empty myself all over her and ruin everything all over again. i?m fearful of waking up, fearful that if i put my head on this pillow and close these eyes i?ll wake up somewhere else, someone else, something else. this is all rambling. all liquor. all powerful. nothing insightful. what do you see? what do you make of this? not you, you. me, reading this again. obsessed with these letters all over again never going to ever read this again or peruse these thoughts again, never going to wonder what i spent all this time on again.

i want to declare war on hollywood and survive another night without feeling like crawling out of my skin. no more ants. no more whiskey. no more caffeine.

excuse me while i use the restroom and my molecules extract themselves from themselves again, tearing at the seams.

this is silly. i only remember being this belligerently lonely when i was a kid. and i hate this feeling because i have everything lying right here next to me.