wednesday march 7 2001 | 7:50 p.m.
i want my records back
and that motorcycle gas tank
that i spraypainted black
*
the owls have been talking to me
but i'm sworn
to secrecy
*
i woke up in
a burned out basement
sleeping with
metal hands
in a spirit ditch
the new sparkly album is coming out very soon. king of nails. i'm breathless.
and attempting to listen to vivadixie... on my headphones as i type this, while the millionaire show blasts in the background. (my dad is an addict. he's convinced that he's learning english with regis. i guess there are worse ways.) it's slightly maddening, but i'm doing my best to tune out.
today running errands gave my dad and i the excuse to drive up the john f. kennedy causeway (where all the cruiseships leave port) twice, and through ocean drive on the way back from picking up my mom from work. ocean drive is the beachfront strip you see in the movies, but ever so much more beautiful.
i will call the record label guy tomorrow. some sort of gut feeling tells me i'm going to need him soon. i am not getting the new york vibe. but then again, who knows, and what does my gut know anyway.
oh baby. i am grooving. chairdancing like it's nobody's business. which it isn't.
my hands still smell like gasoline. there was a slight mishap at the gas station earlier. the pump growled at me and sprayed. it sucked.
i think the friends and i are going out early tonight, which means nine-ish. but i'll believe it when i see it. the last time we left my house at ONE-THIRTY in the morning. it was getting a little excessive, i think. probably back to patrick's house to smoke and shoot the shit. although driving through south beach really made me want to go out and get my dance on. but i put on some outkast when we came home and i think i got that largely out of my system.
miami is a balm for my ragged nerves.
i miss believing in my expectations. someone come restore my faith . . . QUICK.
