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6:54 pm | 24 November 2003 | whitewater rapids in the stream of consciousness

I like it here. Los Angeles smells the same. Today's mountains were sepia-toned. My throat hurts from singing too much P.J. Harvey too wildly in too much desert. Thank you, Anne, for telling me that a poke of goats is called a tribe.

The banner ad on the page where I am typing this entry says "Just because you're going forward ... Doesn't mean I'm going backward." Text inaccuracies aside, it's still stupid. I ate a bazillion pickled turnips today, and (earlier) got the wrong coffee at Starbucks, some whole-milk-toffee-latte monstrosity that turned my stomach. The 710 freeway makes your legs jump like a marionette with cricket synapses.

In Southern California everyone calls highways "The [Number Here]." As in "Take the 5 south until you hit the 710." It is addictive. If you pay attention, that is how most movie characters say it, even though it is how most Americans don't.

I am supposed to go to this reading now. I am feeling mega-ambivalent. I am feeling torn between two modes of being and it's disruptive and weird. I think I just need a house. Please see the Livejournal entry for part of it, explained awkwardly. Good Lord, I miss my dog.

My new maybe-landlord needs a graphic designer and I am hoping maybe he will let me subsidize rent that way, or something. I feel torn and freaky in general. I think it's probably all the coffee and turnips. No, it is definitely all of them. And the whiskeyed nights fighting the soy-and spirulina-smoothie days, my bipolarly Libran Janus-face. I remember it now. clm.

things people have recently called me that i find wildly inaccurate

"not lazy"
"not a drunk"
"laid back"
"a god*"

and it makes me feel crazy

*"Ray. When someone asks you if you are a god, you say YES!"

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