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.