2004-10-23 - 11:27 p.m.
brian/clinton, neurotic dog, guitar

caramba.

ok so it was brian tonight. i called him clinton and he called me strawberry. we did yoga and fucked around with a chinese guy named yuen and a bunch of fifteen-year-olds at mother's beach where i used to do meth and fuck in the bathrooms. i looked for my tag--"methamphetamines for sale, cheap!"--but it had been painted over. bastards.

there was also much philosophizing.

then he taught me some chords on his guitar and told me i was a natural musician, which made me feel pretty good, although all i did was keep playing what he told me to play over and over until i got it down and started fucking around with it. so that was fun. he says "you should get a guitar," and i'm like "yeah, right after the flying pony."

also i obtained several billion biblios from the library today. they smell good.

and my dog can't go out the kitchen or the bathroom walking forward. he has to go backward. he can walk in normally; it's just going out that gives him the trouble. i used to think it was due to his not wanting to turn around on linoleum so he just faced the same direction the whole time, but this evening i performed some experiments wherein i placed him at the back of the kitchen, facing out, and then watched him make his exeunt: he turned around and walked out backwards. same thing in the bathroom. hilarity ensues.

in retaliation he took a piss in my room.

in addition, the short story seems to be going relatively well. it's due in five days (more like four). it doesn't really matter, though, because this creacher (teacher/creature) seems to think we kids shit gold and no matter what comes out on paper it's wonderful and powerful and deep. so why bother writing a good story? a real story?

because i motherfuckin' can, bitches!

so i've decided to pursue acting in addition to writing. music too. couldn't hurt, right?

i need a new drug anyway.

- rachel

ooh, you touch my tra-la-la... mmm, my ding-ding-dong