Diamond Brain

The internet connection I've been "stealing" is unstealable for a couple weeks, but be not afeared, dudes. I may not have access to the internet, but the library does. I'm at the library right now, "borrowing" the internet and not looking anyone else in the eyes lest they start recommending "beach reading."

Otherly, I need to look for a job that's exactly like the job I had at the museum, or preferably, the same job I had at the museum. "Otherly" is not a word. "Job" is a word I keep hearing every time I talk to my father.

My job right now is making dinner every night and taking Josh wherever he needs to go. It's not a bad job. It's not really a job, though. I don't want to ruin the illusion for you, but cooking's not really that hard, especially for two or three people. That said, Josh can't cook.

I had this daydream about a giant snake with a diamond in its brain. I really let the giant snake have it using a stick and some magical powers. Then I dug into the giant snake's brain with the stick and got the diamond out. I sold the diamond on the black market and lived comfortably near the ocean where I wrote a successful series of books about my battle against the giant snake. The battle only lasted a few minutes, so I had to flesh it out a little for the books. I constructed an elaborate mythology and invented some characters who would later visit me in a vision on my deathbed.

I'm in a constant state of daydreaming. This is probably evidence of my inability to cope with reality. REALITY-SCHMEALITY? I'm a Taurus and change is one of those things I deal with by flailing the arms in my head. Imagine I'm a bird and all my feathers are little arms. Flap, flap, flail.

I will see you soon. But first, I must make it out of this library alive.

Fox Street

I saw two foxes cross the street. I was drunk so the streetlight was red and the foxes were perfect foxes and the street itself was like a pillow. I said, "Hey, there's some foxes," and Josh said, "Huh, they are foxes." Josh wasn't drunk.

We were at a party where this guy kept singing a Christmas carol. It's July. Something about the joys of Mary. Each joy was numbered. The first joy Casey had was the joy of beer. A girl gave me some cigarettes. The second joy. The girl was nice, but of course she's moving to Nashville like tomorrow or something. She writes poetry but doesn't read it. I said, "I don't read poetry either," but I really do. I have a bookshelf full of poetry. Sometimes I lie to people I'll never see again.

I got an acceptance recently that made me almost sick with happiness. I'll tell you about in a week. It's the story of a man living on the water.

I'm writing the script for a comic book. Shhh. I haven't done this before. It's like the audiobook version of porn right now. No pictures yet. You may never hear about this again. It could be so awful. Go about your lives! Eat a box of toaster pastries and forget I ever brought it up.

It's only a matter of time before I'm tangentially related to everyone from my hometown.

Making Water

I'm having that sort of feeling where I need to see open water. I haven't seen the ocean in years. I see a lot of rivers. I don't care about rivers. I saw a lake last summer. Right now I see land and who gives a shit about land unless you can see the ocean from the land. I'm in the middle-ish area of the country. I wrote a story about being on a boat. I saw this guy in Miami who lived on his boat. He was hot, which made it easier to romanticize his life. He just sat on his boat and read a lot. He wore hats and open shirts. That seems perfect.

The Midwest isn't so bad, except sometimes the Indian food isn't spiced enough. Middle Americans are pussies, I guess. I cook a lot of Indian food. Well, I cook a lot of food, but it's mostly Indian food. I assume our house is just thick with curry, but I don't know. I don't smell it anymore.

I have to make Italian bread here in a minute. It'll make our house smell so good, but no one will say anything about it because I'm the only one here right now. Well, the snake's here, but snakes don't give one shit, two shits, three shits about bread. Unless the bread is made of mice. Like a mouseloaf.

We watched a movie last night and there was a high school reunion scene in it. My ten year reunion is coming up. I have a tiny, hardcore book coming out that year, so maybe I'll go to my reunion. I told myself I'd go if I had a book published. I don't care if my classmates have babies, because hey, of course they have babies. I just want to see how everyone looks now. I look pretty different. I don't wear hoodies all the time. My hair is mostly better. Anyway.

I have a guest post on xTx's blog, NOTHING TO SAY. Summer lovin' and such. xTx is my "online friend." The rumor is that she's a bearded lady in a traveling circus, but that's impossible because traveling circuses don't exist anymore. Maybe in California.

Secret Skulls

I used to shave my head maybe once a year, and my mother would say, "I prefer your hair long and artsy, not short and Nazi." This is when my parents got a divorce and I felt weird and powerless, but also powerful because HEY, I could get tattoos and shave my head and bake cookies whenever I wanted. I liked how not having hair showed off that I have a pretty nice skull. I feel like I have no secrets when I have no hair. Like I can't hide in my hair. Anyway. I'm not a Nazi.

The last Harry Potter movie is out, but I'll be quiet about my excitement because I believe magic and religion are very private matters.

Abbi is going to Denver for a fewish weeks to be a governess. I'm not kidding. She has a carpet bag that goes on for miles. One of my college friends is coming to visit while Abbi is gone. This college friend used to tell me I baked too much and didn't I know what sugar did to my body? Also, when I shaved my head, she said, "Maybe your forehead pimples will clear up now." Lest you think my college friend is evil, I used to tell her exactly what I thought of her boyfriends. We also peed in a jar as part of an art project. Another college friend helped us get enough pee in the jar. It was a large jar. The pee turned brown because it was in the jar for so long.

I have a story up in the July issue of PANK Magazine. I wrote it when I was obsessed with crushes. Right now, I'm obsessed with crocheting enough granny squares to cover the coffee table. The colors I'm using might induce seizures, which is too bad because I honestly do have epilepsy and I haven't been medicated for over three years.

Bugs and Birds and Boyfriends

It's my brother's birthday and it's xTx's birthday. We're all going to Chili's later. Except the Chili's here is closed and abandoned so we're going to break in and eat whatever we find and kill. I hope there are some booths left. I prefer the privacy and intimacy of sitting in booths.

Some people still call Josh my "friend." They are so close. BOYFRIEND.

I'm working on a gay story. It's so gay you'll want to roll up your pant legs after you read it. You'll want to wear shoes without socks. You'll want to get a fork tattoo given how much you'll want to eat this little gay story up.

I was involved in some hard-hitting internet journalism this week. Mike Kitchell, Tim Jones-Yelvington and I compiled this list of hot indie-lit gents for HTMLGIANT. I'm going to tell you a secret. All of these guys are hot, but the last three guys on the list are the hottest. I could write an article arguing why I'm right on this, but I'm not nearly that obsessive about people I've never met.

I'm reading some good books, including one that isn't even out yet. Shut the front door.

Seriously, it's summer and the outside is filthy with bugs and birds.

Gay Ghost

I spent the weekend with Josh and his family. I smoked cigarettes. I drank. I slept. I woke up. I ate. I ate. I ate. My lips are chapped because of the cigarettes. I wore those boots I was talking about last time. SOMEONE BOUGHT THOSE BOOTS FOR ME. The internet is a magical place with real people on the other end. I want to hug the real people and say, "I think you have to agree about these boots. They bring out my hair and my eyes and my moles, all of which are brown like these boots."

I just found a piece of raw garlic in a tooth crevice. The Indian lunch buffet just keeps on giving.

Here's the story about how I started smoking. It's probably a story I've told before, but I'm going to tell it again. A few summers back, I was obsessed with smoking. Not the act. The image. I bought a pack of Marlboro Reds in Virginia when I was on vacation with my family. The pack cost $6.66. The clerk asked if I wanted to buy anything else. I said, "What, why?" And she said, "Because of 666. You know, the Mark of the Beast?" I said, "Oh, I need a lighter, I guess." The clerk said, "Thank God."

I had that pack of cigarettes for like a year. All told, I've only smoked three or four packs of cigarettes in my life. I don't really like smoking. I do like leaving parties and sharing confidences with other smokers. I also like having something to do with my hands. I don't always know what to do with my hands. I've learned a secret, though. If you put your hands down by your side, it doesn't look weird. It feels weird, but it looks completely normal. I'm just a guy standing here not doing anything with his hands.

I'm being quiet about the book for now. I don't want to ruin it by saying, "The main character is a gay ghost." WHOOPS. The main character is a gay ghost. Not this Gay Ghost.