I get stoned enough, I'm honest. Smart honest. The kinda honest I can live with.
Maybe that's what I tell myself.
This is me writing garbage ain't nobody gonna hold me accountable for.
I don't know how to be. There ain't no fucking manual. Bring me a pizza every once in awhile and I'm good. Pizza and a whiff of sex. I'm good.
Nah. Shit. Maybe I sound like the Internet equivalent of that homeless dude rambling about some shit that makes no sense while he waits for a bus he doesn't have money for. That could be you. That could be me. Maybe your wits and your good looks and your talent and all that shit ain't gonna save you cuz you're just you. Look. I'm just me. It's aight. I love you. Okay. Maybe I won't say that again. Yo. We gotta believe a better world is possible.
Fuck. I'm getting sick of this. 10:29 PM Pacific Standard Time.
I feel lazy.
This is art, yo.
This is sugar.
This is late night truth.
This is finding the one true god again.
This is bullshit but it had its moments.
Should I read this again in the morning?