Isn’t it kinda weird that crowdfunding sites, where people literally ask widely for money to deal with a dead friend or try to pay for their medical care, are for-profit companies? 

That just seems weird to me. 

.

It occured to me today that one of the reasons I despise the idea of volunteering my vessel to grow a parasite cloan of myself spliced with someone else (who is twisted enough for me to wanna fuck, which in and of itself is kinda like, dude… come on. Like, I don’t gotta be the stupid white person in a horror flick to know how that’s liable to turn out), is that all of us don’t have to go through the dealing with the eggs for 40 years shit. That is some fucking bullshit man. Insulting.

I am surfacing again. That clif my life seems like it’s charging toward, the dropoff in April where I stop knowing why I exist — it’s blank to make room. It’s blank to make room, and the abyss is scary as fuck. Holy shit have I been really wanting to die y’all. 

I rehearsed a primal growly cover you haven’t heard me perform yet — while sitting on the toilet taking a dump — and; I am coming the fuck back to the gulf coast, bitches. And it is going to be fucking real. It is gonna be so fucking real I need a black hole of nothingness afterwards to sop up whatever juice is left over. Nola. The ocean. So much music. Gonna go the fuck out there and change some notherfucking worlds, is what I am gonna do. 

The rollercoaster is a battlefield right now. There is so much going on in my head. Thinking so hard it hurts. Wound so tight because if I wasn’t we would all unravel. Puzzle pieces clamping down for this next configuration thrown into the hellfire of constant motion. My pussy smells amazing and I feel so fucking alone. 

No rest for the wicked. 

Fuckin artists.