I want a studio apartment, and there might be an available one less than twenty minutes away from Jan's House, which is where I am currently trying my damnedest to get a job. I might actually get a place of my own. I might actually get a real job. I might actually have a place where I can do everything without feeling judged and nagged and pestered. Hell, I might hate it, but I think it could be really, really worth it. I am ill with this false sense of propriety. Yes, the world has been kind, but no, the sun doesn't give the moon its rays while expecting the payment to be tenfold. These are my pounds of flesh and I'm keeping them.
these days have been good.
-smoking my first rolled cigarette in ages while listening to Gogol Bordello
-knowing that my fur coat is indeed going with me on whatever trip I make
-packing all of my necessities and necessary luxuries into the back of my station wagon
-driving up and down the streets I know like the back of my hand and the veins of my eyelids
-seeing over ten cop cars in less than forty minutes
-understanding that sometimes it is more than a desire that drives me to be wild
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