As I was riding to In-N-Out, down a dark side street, Van Buren, the only streetlight in sight flicked twice and went out. right beside me. Like click, click, Keyser Soze. Like fuckin' Dumbledore with his lighter. Come to think of it, I can't even recall if the light was on in the first place. Non of the other ones were. The whole street was black midnight, I could almost see the stars.
NOPE---------------->
Hola! Que Youth;
I'm at the Brig right now nigga. Wednesday night. Some girl dragged me here. Well, we dragged to Zinque but they only have beer and wine, and to be honest, it's way too fuckin' French in there, by which I mean pretentious.
She says I should say:
"I am the active youth. I am that friend preaching about the absurd reality that we all must cum to know. Which is what youth is all about."
What can I say, she's young.
I wanna write this with some fucking Scotch. Single malt, baby. The cheapest thing they got is something called Glenrothes Reserve. $11. No French music in here. No, good old bluesy hip-hop. Good rhythm, good words. I'm a writer.
All these other fucks are probably spouting' off about that one piece they wrote for VICE that one time or that two times. Not me, motherfucker. No, I write books about what it's like too be doe. I self-published the first one. I'll probably self-publish the second one if no one picks it up because hell, it's such a chunk of time to sell something like that. Something just about Paris and women and writing. No plots, no subtexts, no story arcs, just insufferable growth and a strive to pull meaning from the mundane everyday. Spliffs help. I hope you're beginning to get my drift.
Me, I work at that surf shop in Santa Monica among other things. Travis' stuff going all the way back to his SURFING days is an inspiration certainly. We showed one of Kai's movies in our parking lot, Dear Suburbia, and it was a fucking gas. Craig gets all asian in the eyes when he's high, like blitzkrieg stoned and drunk, I know. I remember things in the haze.
