I don’t know who the fuck i am. I can’t find peace. I’m erratic, chaotic. Trying to find balance. /\. Trying to make the outside match the inside. But there’s just too much of it. It’s too much to be. Every day there is more of it. More and more and more of it. It would be okay if it was turning into art, but it’s just waste and injury. Destroying my body, my mind, my image. I go out and search and search and search. But what i am looking for is not out there. It is the stillness. That cannot be found.

Eating tacos and crying in the blistering hot sun helped a lot, at least.

Maybe I need a holiday. Maybe I need to renounce Satan and all his pomps. Maybe I need to sit and cry in the hot, hot sun. My entire right leg has been numb all day. I wonder if that’s a matter for concern. There’s no art coming from it because I only know how to make art by making sounds out of my feelings and what I feel does not sound good. Maybe I should write some words. Maybe I should join the church. Why do I feel the need to work these things out in a public forum? In a public place, or on a public page? Maybe I want absolution from strangers, from these many tiny gods. Maybe these are acts of reverence, contrition, writhing for all the ojitos de mis dioses, perdóname por todos mis pecaditos pero con la ayuda de tu gracia ya no pecaré mas santa maria madre de dios ruego por mi en la hora de mi muerte. yo soy muy cursi jajaja. I’m trying to find a list of Satan’s pomps so i can renounce them. Maybe it’s meant to be a blanket renouncement of his pomps, which i’m fine with, but i don’t know if i’d even know it if i was looking at a pomp.

no se quien chingados soy.

The first time I came to London by myself it was one week after my 19th birthday. I’d made the trip see Otway and Barrett live. It was the 19th of March. The opportunity arose for me to meet up with a girl whose diet consisted, seemingly in its entirety, of Wotsits and milk. I was charmed by this. We’d been speaking on-line, on MSN messenger. We’d met on MySpace when I’d made the effort to send her a very long message explaining that I liked her straw hat and we’d hit it off. We met up at Victoria train station and she sprayed my greasy hair with coconut Batiste on a concrete staircase. We never made it to the show, never made it out of hotel. She was kind to me. I met her parents. I met her dog, who was dying of cancer. That’s when i learned dogs could get cancer. I met her friends, I was awkward around her friends. We saw each other a few more times. In train stations, bus stations, hotel rooms, and bread and breakfasts, toilet cubicles, a field of daffodils beside Three Bridges I’ve never seen again, and Croydon and Carlisle and Regent’s Park where I lay my head on her lap and she squeezed blackheads on my forehead til they popped. Later on we broke each other’s hearts.