Thank the fucking lord I�m home now. I made it to the party by 8:30, and was out right before eleven after smoking an unreasonable amount of cigarettes, and drinking one coke. Everyone there was nice, all great people, etc. I just was not in the mood for it tonight. I feel isolated when I go to those, and I�m in this general melancholy mood. It�s not one specific person or anything, it�s just people in general. After a week or so of stress on the job, stress outside of the job, you want at least a day to yourself. I�m looking forward to a nice Sunday tomorrow where I have a day of from work, as well as a day off from talking to anyone. I need it more than anyone. I can�t see myself taking it anymore, the day to day. I was talking to my friend Steve about it tonight, and just how we used to stay out all night and just hang around. I mean I like to just hang around and do nothing just as much as the next guy, but I can�t do the all nighters anymore. If I�m by myself fine. There�s nothing more romantic to me than staying up late by yourself. Inside yourself. Talking amongst yourself. Watching the paint dry, watching the rug lay. I have more inspiration late at night like this right now than ever. Especially when I�m in the company of the men I�m in the company of right now courtesy of �shuffle� on the CD player; Mingus, Coltrane, Monk, etc. I want to bad to be in a lonely motel room in the middle of the country waiting for the phone to ring falling asleep in a blue lit room with jazz coming out of the boom box. The drapes. Close the drapes tight, there�s someone walking by, don�t let them in here. Don�t let anyone in. Throw a towel over the phone and shut the light. Don�t let anybody in. There is another lock, try it out. There�s only one way in here, and it�s through that door. Do not, under any circumstance ever tell anyone how to operate that door. It will do no good to let anyone through that door. Over that wall. Build the wall higher and higher. Bricks. Big bricks made of stories about �not tonight I have a headache� I�ve had eighteen cups of coffee today, and thirty-seven cigarettes, and ain�t nobody coming in here to do the laundry. I have everything arranged into little piles. Little priorities here and there, stacked neatly like the same bricks. I have everything arranged, so that I can reach it easily. Nobody will be able to call soon. Nobody will know where I live soon. Nobody will be able to ever climb the wall, as I keep on building it higher and higher. Nobody can come to the door trying to sell me anything. The girl with the big green eyes could come to the door with some sort of peace offering, and I will have to turn her away. None of them are worth it. None of them are good enough to watch the rug lay, and the paint dry. None of them are good enough to eat where I eat. I don�t need any type of delivery. Try the back door instead, it will get you what you need back there. No door, just another side of a wall. Four big and tall walls. Some cock sucker will try and scale the wall some day, and I get to shoot him down. I have this book of laws. I have this big old book I carry around with me, it has all these laws, all these rules that I have to follow. I set them up, and I cannot break them. I am just unable to see eye to eye with anyone on anything, so I need to arrange a set of rules and codes. I have this little pile, stacked neatly in the corner of the cage here. I have this little list of priorities, it�s written in some other language that nobody can read. I can�t read it, so I don�t understand why the rules are even there. I break the rules time and again. I break the rules like I break the teeth of people who snap at me like rabid pit bulls. I�d have to be brutally honest right now and say that it all doesn�t matter from here on out. Treat me like a fool that I am. Treat me like a puddle or a trophy. Regardless, I�ll still get to stand up and point at you at the end of it all. I�m actually hoping that all of the women who chose the devil, get exactly what they deserve. I hope they get the lonely nights of sitting up and watching television with the hopes of catching a glimpse of George Clooney. I hope that one day they all get their hair pulled out and spit on like I have. I hope they get slapped in the face like I have with a small dose of reality. It will be good to film all of it. I�ll hide in the bushes and send the tape into America's Funniest Home Videos. I�ll take the tape and show it to friends and call the video tape �to all the girls I loved before�. I�ll always play the tape, just like I always play James Brown when I want to feel good. James would like a copy of that tape. He knows where I�m coming from. I really hope, you know, I really do hope that I get a quiet Friday night this week. I hope that I can sit here and not say a word, not answer a question. Not have to lie. I lie way too much nowadays. Telling people things. Making promises to drive to far corners of the earth for a woman. Imagine me even being that much of a sucker, that I would fall to my knees in front of some girl because she�s a good kisser? Or is intelligent, and we have good conversation. Forget it, that�s so ten years ago. Forget about any plan I may have had for a log cabin in Maine the week before Christmas with a big blanket and a fridge full of pancake batter and cider. Forget I ever said a word to anyone about this. This is my private list of priorities that I will never release. Maybe in hard cover format, but it will never be printed in English I tell you. You want to know why? Because once I start doing that, that�s when I start selling out. I start writing the stories about girls in church, and guys sitting in bars talking about the labor movement and how the Bruins are gonna �finally do it this year�. I pretty much could have guessed I would be sitting in this chair like this five years ago. Especially in the face of all that has gone down now. It�s a bit surreal I guess. It�s also a bit of a comedy. A comedy of errors. A drama club winner. This could win some sort of trophy I�m sure of it. All I really want is a guitar, and a typewriter at this point. For Christmas, I no longer want a wife. For my Birthday, I do not want a dinner, and a parade down town standing up in a limo while they throw confetti down on me. I just want to be left alone with the guitar and the typewriter. No kiss is ever going to knock me on my ass again. No eyes are ever going to be the color of magnets again. They all just have masks on. Leave the mask on, so I can see who you really are. Leave your advice at home, because you know not a fucking thing about me. Don�t call my phone, don�t mail me a letter, and please, fucking please, don�t wish me a happy birthday, it�s all a big joke to me. I can�t laugh any longer, look at the bruises on my ribcage.

before & after