Man in picture. Epilogue.
July 24th, 2008 | 
Author: I’ve no idea if the debt for my weakness has been settled by my death. It no longer matters to me. The universe pays no mind.
In the six or so months since this fucking warlock has entered my life, I’ve been as crazy scared as a man could be without going crazier than a shit house rat, the source of my sanity has been the notion that I would prevail. This idea, mostly predicated on some moral superiority, I took for granted. Some righteousness I possessed that he could not know was my assumption.
Looks like that ain’t shit or it’s not even true.
Arrogance is my demise.
I leave the world with this. Chaos is more prevalent than order. There is far less sense than even logic. I was right not to trust the world because it’s so goddamn random. There will never be a reason. No one will ever find it if there is.
As soon as you turn up the sound the goddamn gunfire starts.
“I am still living with your ghost
Lonely and dreaming of the west coast
I dont want to be your downtime
I dont want to be your stupid game
With my big black boots and an old suitcase
I do believe Ill find myself a new place
I dont want to be the bad guy
I dont want to do your sleepwalk dance anymore
I just want to see some palm trees
Go and try and shake away this disease
We can live beside the ocean
Leave the fire behind
Swim out past the breakers
Watch the world die
I am still dreaming of your face
Hungry and hollow for all the things you took away
I dont want to be your good time
I dont want to be your fall-back crutch anymore
Ill walk right out into a brand new day
Insane and rising in my own weird way
I dont want to be the bad guy
I dont want to do your sleepwalk dance anymore
I just want to feel some sunshine
I just want to find some place to be alone
We can live beside the ocean
Leave the fire behind
Swim out past the breakers
Watch the world die” -Everclear, Santa Monica
Always keep your toilet clean. You may have to drink out of it.
Drinks For My Friends.
Studio City California, July twenty three, two thousand and eight.
Posted in
Nice Everclear reference at the end.
The world you created and lived in for your story is so claustrophobic, so evil, and so real. I feel like I’ve been bent over and stuffed into a box with one little air-hole stabbed into it by a rusty screwdriver. Just enough air and space to live, but not enough to thrive. Or escape.
Help.
Love,
Todd
This may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Thankk you very much.
I got these outlaws and in laws and the “Iceman” my brother, they had thought they were wealthy. You know house worth a million, extra property on the California’s waterfront. They believed they needed protection, from taxation, so thumbs up for Dumbo, aka as Dumbwa. Now they’ve lost jobs, to overseas; no to mention stock market cash crash. And wonder will their children have educational opportunities to afford to live on the west coast. And will there be a draft if the drone McCain, and his take the presidency. With our ever increasing Hispanic influences, can’t help thinking of Sao Paulo, Brazil. The wealthy barricade up away,& never mingle with the poor, they barely know one another exist. Poppies grow wild in California. West Coast” exclusive. American fooled…,fake Gold? Places like Michigan, Realtors and lenders acting like this job depleted dead zone, was actually coveted real estate worth what? Jobs barely exist there anymore Back at the turn on the century 2000, or so. Me Living the beginning of the end.
Ghetto style, in my front yard rapp’n 2PACs.., Hellrazor.. I was switching the words around sometin like
“Born thuggin
Heartless and mean. Muggin at 16
Kick’n up dust with the older G’s
Soaking up the game that was told to me.
Turning tricks on the corner. Cause I want money, orgasms and some strangers quarters.
Fly’n thru the over pass laughin’while other motherfuckas still trying to figure it out
Me and my homee’s doing ninety on the freeway its fun being crazee
I keep my finger on the trigger cause some stupid fucker’s trying to kill me.
Wanted for investigation and even though I’m marked for death., I smoke enemies til they loose they breath”
Then something like..,
Tell me lord can ya feel me, show a sign.. Out of breath almost outta time, everybody’s dying
But I’m busy gettin mine.
Mama raised a hell razor, can’t figure
Why you let the police, and legal ass holes beat down the crazee and the niggaz.
I’m startin to think all the rich in the world is safe
While the poor are arrested or resting in the early graves
then like
Uhh, dear Lord can ya feel me, stress gettin major (lord be my savior, unnha)” thats my version, Reiyalight1
Yeah I was already despised by the Stepford wives. My only retort was less clothing.. tiny low cut T shirt. Cause, No body wishes to be caught envious of sex and breast..,. And its a huge industry in the U.S. I couldn’t resist those beats, what was the purpose of a boom box,summer heat.
The Ipod, was the 1st dagger into Liberty.
GOD, I love being me. sexy. My Asian brain and little Geisha smile. And request for me to pose nude in the Art studio’s of San Francisco. Renaissance, curves they don’t want to set free. If I’ve said it before I’ll say it again pay me grandee money. Hell the fuck O’ sneering at me way before I went ghetto.., oh they would strut their,many ninos, families, and husbands towards me. And sneer at me.. down tiny noses pointed towards the sky. Politely after being referred to az Crazee, I just say “there is going to be a fossil fuel war” And I don’t see myself going off to fight for it. Dumbstruck like there government they don’t have anything else to say. Blissful pillows between my thighs.
Soulful ecstasy sparkles from my eyes. Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing”, Detroit to L.A. Good Vibrations..,The Beach Boys, Mike Love still rule supreme, “Surf’n U.S.A., and he still can sing. Orgasms are for those who R busy mak’n Luv