The Sweetest Thing.

The reason I love my day.

Guilty to title her work.

Dog Food.

I'm quiet today. In spirit. In mind. Only slightly lonely. Less than inspired. More than idle. Slowly stirring. Like clouds before a storm. Not angry, but full. Plump for a harvest of rain. 

So few know me. If any. The way I am when I am alone. Searching. Always. Thinking for hours of strangers and their lives. No reasoning. Just stories. How they pertain to me. And they always do. For I am the creator. No word is separate from me.

I wish for just one day to have the words of a stranger. To think in complete opposites. My repetitive vocabulary and familiar life philosophies. I feel like a dog. Same breakfast everyday. Someone throw me some left overs! To pick your brain would be delicious. 

I hate you and I love you.

Emotional puke. 

Come up already.

Stop boiling from inside out. 

Shaky veins.

We are not the same.

Though I've told you different.

Sleep won't call.

I can't stop the draw.

It's moving on with out me.

Back pedaling.

As you all race forward.

Quit, or I'm coming to get you.

Stale smoke. 

You plot to choke.

And I'm sleepy in the morn.

I know I have

What you all want.

Why don't you just come get it?

The trek to you

Is fucked and new.

I hate you and I love you.

"You on Coke? ", "Nope, I just had a good summer."

Forth of July.

From my Hollywood roof top we watched fireworks from Dodgers stadium, the Staple Center, and Santa Monica beach light of the sky around us. My closest friends and I dodged illegal fireworks being set off by small mexican children whose mother was somewhere else completely. 

Fear of being set on fire while on rooftop. Kind of fun. 

We gulped cheap beer and made toasts to being in the City of Angels. 

Completing the first set of goals, and letting out a brief sigh of release before we battle the next.

Refreshed.

Later in the car we blair the Counting Crows and know every word. We smoke varied brands of cigarettes as we drive down to Venice beach. 

We arrive just as all the crowd is leaving. That's the way we like it. We pretend we are a troup of charming assassins, or maybe just a cool band. We climb down steep rocks to a cove we spy. The waves creeping further up each lap. Girls in short skirts, only one hand void of cigarette, shimmy down the boulders and complain of having to pee. The boys stay slightly behind, perhaps for protection, probably for the view. 

We temp the unusually warm waves to hit us as we squat on jagged rocks with another drink. The boys aching to dive in. Girls thankful they didn't.  

Now in the mood for company we drive to a small Tiki dive bar in Silver Lake after we make a stop for more cigarettes and Red Bull. Upon arriving we find parking 5 yards from the door and are greeted with no cover and an invitation to smoke inside. We like this place already. The attractive, low key hipsters smiled briefly and then go back to their drinks and intellectual conversations.  The white haired bartender was tan and wore a Hawian shirt. He chanted, "BOBA, BOOBA, BAYBOO", and other random words he may or may not have known had a connection to the Tiki. Though now after thinking bout it, he he certainly knew. He had a heavy hand. We all sipped strong fruity drinks and admitted we were drunk, besides the DD, of course. 

 

We pile into my car and make the journy home, promising the boys they will swim tomorrow.