I noticed that since I've stopped publishing these posts, it's harder to hold onto thoughts and ideas that occur to me to post. This absolute freedom to post anything, knowing no one will read this even after I publish it (who's gonna come back this far), or if they do, it'll probably be after I'm no longer around, can be stifling.

It's a weird private space I've created for myself. Like building forts out of blankets and sofa cushions when you were a kid. And you just end up reading a comic book in there.

I'm reading a book called House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski. I got it after someone mentioned I reminded him of Johnny Truant. It's astounding, because he couldn't have had any idea!

I also think it's somewhat of a relief not to hear the true story. I mean you look at the horror sweeping all the way up from my wrists to my elbows, and you have to take a deep breath and ask yourself, do I really want to know what happened there? In my experience, most people don't. They usually look away. My stories actually help them look away. p. 20

I need to memorize that for next time someone asks about my arms, and execute it with appropriate Clint Eastwood menace. " . . . you have to take a deep breath and ask yourself, do I really want to know what happened there? Well, do ya? Punk."