it’s so goddamned humid. am responding by not installing the air conditioner. the heat can fuck itself. I’m not changing.

hard to remember what I was doing before this. is that being an adult? I figure I’m forgetting more and more about being a child sometime in the past, as it hasn’t stopped passing yet. trying to figure out if that means anything, the forgetting. there used to be a time when I thought about writing a book about the seventh grade- one homework assignment at a time, one boring evening at a time, building the butter-monster back up.

you know, that’s exactly what it is. your childhood is a monster built out of butter. the moment you become grown up, you decide to start spreading the monster out on toast. your sadness is how thin it’s spread and you only remember what you haven’t already eaten until after the head sinks into the neck in the heat and the arm falls off.

as for the forgetting, if that has any meaning, it escapes me. I’d like to think that it does, that it’s somehow wistfully poetic to observe that you’re forgetting where you came from at the same speed that you’re moving forward. is that what doom is? the fuck if I know. I’ve only known it a year, how could I say?

here’s what you do: you divide the meaning by the meaninglessness and then add it to the net worth of what you mourn if you don’t believe in God. that’s your answer.