Dreams.

A few weeks ago, I went to New York City, to ramble through Brooklyn with Billz and create Art with Michele Serchuk. Then I went to Zurich, to climb the rafters with K. Then I went to Prague, to readjust my perspective on reality. Then I went briefly to Luzern, to shout at swans. Then I came home.

https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/112227994524873175075/albums/6057216614659144769

Despite my best efforts, I am still home, and under deadline, strung out, stressed, generally alarmed, but increasingly verbose. The magically delicious silky smoothness of the new keyboard on MB's and my utterly pimpin new desktop babeh doesn't hurt my aspirations of literary greatness, that's for good goddamn sure.

What else? Oh, right, my back piece is finished:

Big ups to Michael Gardner, who says "Aww, why are you being such a little bitch?" when
I cry when he scrubs his needle into my spinal column like a demented child with a crayon of pure pain.

(Notable note: there is no red ink in this tattoo. That's, you know, blood. #hardasfuck)