get it? it’s like eight beards, and it’s like one beard in the month of october, and really, they’re the same thing, or the same thing would be growing a beard for eight days straight in the month of october, which this is. a new beard every day.

the truth is: this is what happens when I get too busy. nothing extraordinary happens. last summer I went on a road trip in an ice cream truck through the great northern territories. I sold snow cones to eskimos. they only wanted the syrup. I worked forty hours a week and still managed to slip out for a weekend here and there and freeze my hands through to the bone with snow cone people. I made snowmen with them. they have only three words for snow and even they are all lies.

no. it’s like the Jack London story about the fire building. that guy couldn’t have survived without his cold weather whiskers. I just read a story about somebody whose hands shake in ice storms. it made my hands shake, but there was no ice storm. there is no ice storm. even in the great northern territories, there never was any fucking ice storm and everybody’s always out of syrup and wouldn’t share anyways.

really, what I’d like to do is read for forty eight hours at the same time I’m writing for forty eight hours, and balance it out by playing Resident Evil 4 for forty eight hours. what I want is being awake. I want the weight of eyes and of-eyes. I want everything to turn into burnt hair.