nothing exists for me this weekend but radiohead cd and website

nothing exists for me this weekend but radiohead cd and website. i hate leaving my website, and i hate not being able to get into it, lucky and flabbergasted that the webaster is still around, but he's just a software program called bob like all the others, i take this like a man. you can call me bob.

i am beginning to understand what happened to me in psb. comes too fucking fast or not at all, nice range of choices, god loves his children, god does his best, twitch-princess, who cares, you do everything cracked, in other words, no therapy when suicidal, busy straightening out, reading Dylan's No Direction Home biography, this will do the trick Sylvia, what's cookin' mother of the world, kids in the casserole, tonight? leftovers, again?

slow down, slow down, fuck you, fuck you, running traumas, all free and goes on forever, brings the whole house down, i don't care who you are, this is not for you, i want my books.

i keep trying to agree that books were written by people but concept blows my mind.

i could lose my site in a minute if i don't keep it up, everything goes in here now, it will help me.

all my junk is going all over the world now, got a thumb's up from a psychiatrist in Denmark, it's not like nothin i ever seen before, don't trust it, something's wrong somewhere, but no time to focus, nothin comes for days, just music, coffee, makin my trailer pretty and kind, missin jon stewart, who is my troublewaits reverse sacrament, i spit him out, see had to, what's the best thing in life lately? jon stewart, no other reason for tv, watch the same show twice everyday. he's out, trouble's in. no desire or need for jon in over a month, because sorry, self-destructing, this is fuel. i have 140 new books since site, things you have to know, don't know myself, books, scholarship, 15 minutes then throw book, scientists all wrong, they need to experience it, never have, fuck em, now who, who, thinkers, where are the jews, discredited, i will not engage in bullshit caliber of discourse about private life of Bruno Bettelheim with people who come here to watch.

nothing happens if i kick. take care of me, you say, clockwatcher, you eat every day? your food sucks. water, that i can agree with intellectually, 70% water is all of us, we all pee, need a fix now and then, sleep? lets trade dreamstates then you come back and push bedrest on me. why follow schedules, i say, your life is empty, you say the list will keep you working. show me the data, no, sorry, doesn't go that way, it's opposite of that, self-neglect is conducive to passion, self-neglect equals intellectual nuance and precision which i am now quite after, no pain no gain. things i want to tell the world about me:

hemingway visions, he comes just before waking in black and white, typing

IQ scores are my mom

my new diagnosis, when fuckhead told me all i could think was do i have the wardrobe for this one or not? oh well, i knew the fainting couch would come in handy someday. my poor mystique hasn't gotten off it for days. ok, shit why not, here's a hint: psychopharm out, smelling salts, in.

what i want the world to tell me about it:

anything.

thanx!!!!!!!!!

trouble

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