nutloaf

I just wasted big heap time reading dirty sugar cookies. Tonight I was reading these scrippps that have been endlessly stressing me out and I didn’t want to “waste time cooking” so I went out to find food. I live in the Castro now and it’s nice b/c I can go into a restaurant, take my shirt off, and pour ice water on my chest hairs without fear of running into anyone I know. I walked all around but all the restaurants had people in them. I wanted to eat alone, unseen. Takeout produces too much paper and styrofoam and shit, and I might not be alone at home. They might see me eating. I had a copy of the New Yorker and a 12-ft long RCA cable so I (once I bring it home) I’ll be able to listen to WFMU and BBC World Service at loud volumes. Just as I was giving up I found house of chen. It was good. Ate a lot of broccilli. I was the only person in the restaurant. The waitress said please after everything: “here is tea, please.” I read the last paragraph of the Tad Friend/San Quentin story, the A.L. Kennedy story “Wasps” (marriage fucken sucks) and some of the Peter Schedjehal Courbet bio piece (for a while Lacan owned origin of the world. He kept it behind a wooden door which he would open when he wanted to show visitors.)
I am sleepy. I love you.
nutloaf