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Not Much... by Ray Printer Friendly

Sorry kids, but I got nothin’ tonight, and no time to make it. My eyes burn, my head is about to explode, and my fingers feel like they’re filled with water. Whatever I’m thirsty for, it’s not gin, but that’s all I have, so that’s what I’m drinking.

I had a previously written post about ghosts and love, but I erased it on (kind of) accident. Probably for the best, I suppose. But have you ever noticed how well the words “ghost” and “love” go together? Like “cotton” and “candy” or “sex” and “murder.” Perfection.

I had hoped to sit down and write a decent post tonight, but instead I ended up making spaghetti and talking on the telephone. That’s life, I guess.

At some point, I started biting my fingernail, because part of it was sticking out and bugging me. I’ve now managed to turn it into a serrated edge that has mangled three body parts and counting. I rub my eyes a lot, and that’s not something you want to be doing when you have the equivalent of a steak knife at the end of your finger. Taking out my contact lenses should be fun tonight.

There’s really just nothing on the TV in my brain tonight, and I feel all dried out at the moment. My skin, but not just that—it feels like even the inside is parched. My brain, my sense of humor, the place where the stories come from—it all seems really barren right now.

I’ve been wanting to tell you about his book I’ve been reading, though: Evasion. I don’t generally encourage theft, but if you see this in a book store, you should steal it right away.

It’s about a guy who decides just after graduating that he doesn’t ever want a job. He basically wages a war against society, I guess. I’m not going to do it any justice, so I’ll just quote the back of the book and a few random lines that I liked.


“Homelessness.

Unemployment.

Poverty.

If you’re not having fun, you’re not doing it right”


“We dumpstered, squatted, and shoplifted our lives back. Everything fell into place when we decided our lives were to be lived. Life serves the risk taker…”


“Books are dangerous like that…One book of infallible truth and romance by those more daring than you, and you’ll never sit still again.”


There’s more, and there’s better, but that’s all I can find at the moment—I sit in a mostly dark room when I write, and reading a book by the lighting from a computer monitor while drinking is not the best thing to do to your brain.

It’s a good book, though—one of those that makes you want to get up off your ass and go do something with life. He’s no Kerouac, but he stirs that gutter-wildness inside me that usually sits dormant. Kerouac, Hunter S. Thompson, the kind of guys that make you want to run out and tempt the world to eliminate you. The writing might not be as good, but the idea shines through.

And that’s all from me. ‘Night, Li’l Homies.


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