I don't want to leave a mess behind. I don't want anyone to clean me up. I don't want to be a smear or a streak or matter on the windshield. I just want to be gone.

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This building is failure.
This road is failure.
This evening is failure.

I drive past and I try and avoid and I always end up back here.

I made the wrong choice and chose the wrong path and here I am.

I have ended back here.

I hate this neon. I hate this storefront. I hate this fucking road.

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In this week, there have been many talks.

Of these talks, I can name around a hundred.

Out of the hundred, I'd say one or two of these talks was worth having.

I have to have another one of these talks tomorrow.

And I fear I will have to have at least one or two hard talks soon enough.

I would like to not talk to anyone, ever, about anything.

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It's funny to be that guy, when I was that guy, now I'm that guy somewhere else. I don't want to be any guy. I just want to sleep.

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I woke up and someone was lying in my bed. I thought it was me, but then I realized that I had not fallen asleep as much as I'd woken up stuck between the many realities that I have to keep track of. Fuck. I hate when this happens.

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My dog sits without a leash on the cool porch and we watch cars go by. He hates buses. I wonder why sometimes. I think a bus killed his dad. Me, I sit here with a laptop and an iced tea and wonder what the weekend will hold for me. I hope it holds absolutely nothing. A huge chunk of a lack of decision making. I have made enough decisions this week to choke a normal man. I have given up on people. I have almost lost the place that I live in and still could. I realized that I made a mistake professionally that I am going to have to do my best to kiss ass, sell out and suck dick to survive so that I can fulfill my promise of being an absolute bum and leaving this shithole town and everyone in it behind in 2 years. So really, when you think about part b and part c, I don't know why I was so upset about the house, in retrospect. I mean, if your dream is to be Dr. David Bruce Banner without the turning green and killing people part, and only the part where you, you know, wander the Americas and have adventures and change people's lives, you know, that part, having a house seems to be pretty much a hold-you-back from this dream. But you know, I'm a fucking contradiction. So I sit in meetings and dream about keeping my little $85,000 house and at night, I throw up and go to bed as soon as I get home and try and do enough stuff so that my stomach is a little bit better and I try and make art and I try and stick to my plan, because I swear to fucking God, I will never be caught unawares without a plan of my own ever again. And that brings us all to now, dear reader. The slowly growing dusk of a Friday night, completely sure of my aloneness, save for a screaming cat who is begging to be outside and a dog sleeping on the porch and this iced tea that I paid to fucking much for and the true knowledge that the only person you can trust is the one inside your head (and even that dude, they're fucking crazy, too, keep an eye on them). It's a precarious place to be. Both happy to be free for a bit, sad that freedom doesn't last forever and certain that somewhere, somehow, the life that you always wanted could happen at any minute, but nah, you're too fucking cynical for that. They say all writers are liars. I say all writers are fucking drunks. I can prove that hypothesis if you'd like to buy me a drink.

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I'd leave here, but no city will make me happy. I'd say that I'd be someone brand new once my feet were off the plane. I'd change my name, cut my hair, wear contacts and a tie, lose a bunch of weight, shave off my beard and never answer to the name Sam again but everything eventually would end up just like it is now, the same story, a new sequel, told by a lesser cast. That's life. A continual serial tale told the same time over and over again until you either get sick of it and shoot yourself in the fucking head or die. Well, that's a lie. You die both ways. There should maybe be another way. Maybe there is. Maybe my life is a continual battle against suicide and death. Maybe it'd be easier if that was just one enemy, you know? It's hard enough to fucking battle death. We don't need to go adding deaths derivative sidekick henchmen suicide to the mix while we are at it. Jesus, the odds against death are like, you know, 1 to 1, so it seems. I can logically win any bet where I say, I bet I die. I guess suicide isn't as tough as death, because I could bet that I won't kill myself and logically if I keep my shit together (but at what cost haw haw haw) then I will win that bet. Again, I win both ways, because if I die or kill myself, I will be dead and unable to pay you. And if we had a deal and I have to pay you posthumously from what I can only imagine is a Swiss bank account, then I will be dead and unable to enjoy material possessions, so the joke is on you, person still alive, stuck in your morality-less woe is me, oh look, a dead Sam's money made me happy. Well, I'm dead. And you won't get to read weird ass shit like this any more. You won your bet, but like I said before, at what cost? At this point, I will jump from the darkest part of your house, this all having been a practical joke that I've played on you. But then you fall down the steps and die, and it's my fault, and I feel so bad that I kill myself. And then you jump up and laugh and say, haw haw haw that was just a dummy, I have been alive all along. Now I have your money all over again! And my ghost will scream NOOOOOO! as the camera pulls back and yes, finally, folks, the fucking joke is on me.

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