I got to a certain
point with that shit—and then I left wherever it was that I was at
(The Hurst) and I don't remember where I was going with it—but it's
just as well—because I don't want to get into it. I feel like I was
on the verge of revealing too much. Who cares, anyway? Everything's
made up, everything's true—it's for the geeks of the next
generation to figure out—and that's only if they care, and they
only care if you become a celebrity or a mass murderer or something
along those lines. I'm at The Hurst again, this time for
dinner—coffee, live music, and personal psychodrama. It's the
broken heart Martian open mic and end of the century open mic death
celebration.
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