Photo by Boudewijn Berends[/add_caption_link]

god got drunk and gave me drugs. that’s a lie: there isn’t a god, i can’t afford good drugs, let alone good beer, nor bus tickets so i can see you all or even newspaper to hold over my head for when it is raining between the bus stop ceiling and your car, picking me up. minutes like these, i miss the days when i didn’t already call a story “lovesong to thinness.” sometimes i think of an idea and i think about turning it into the new “lovesong to thinness,” but then i’ve already made the one and it wasn’t so good, and then i think that itself could be the story, “lovesong to thinness.”

if that repulses you, i don’t know what more i can do for you. i am a gas station cashier. you are anton chigurh. neither of us will die in this movie, but that’s not the point.

hostage crisis: i am holding russian in my head like a talisman against dementia. when i start forgetting it, i don’t know if there’s a word for how bleak that is. this is all meant to tell you that if i see you and yell words at you which you don’t know what they any of them mean, don’t worry about it. remember how there are dots on “F” and “J” keys because of nobody knows? forget about it.

today i took two chili dogs to the park and ate them and looked at the water. i told the guy who sold them to me where i went to school, and he said, “oh, so you’re one of those types that sits on the fence and shoves off the immigrants?”

“no,” i said.

“different kind of minutemen1, oh,” he said. “ha ha get the hell out of here2.”

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1 sports teams from my university are called, commonly, “the minutemen”

2 he didn’t say that part, i made it up