{finding the gin. on boys and cancer.}

i would have stayed up later, but i ran out of smoke. and would have written better, had i not been so tempted as to see who else had simpler things to say. this place is a riot. this town is a joke. like most. i'm lying. we stayed up late. read Calvin and Hobbes, felt much better about everything. is it so bad to be a dreamer. i'm honing my contemplations. if i thought about my dreams as much as i think about boys and cancer, i'd probably be a happy woman. the key is to keep writing. everyone always says there isn't anything to talk about. to update. but therein lies the fatal flaw, you just keep writing. even when there's nothing to say. even when you're dying of cancer. even when the boys have hurt you, but you keep on loving. i'd give you my last meal. i'd give you my blankets in the cold. there are certain people who do this to us. and those who don't. yet again, it's late at night, and i am running out of cigarettes. my new pact with myself is to think about writing, instead of boys and cancer. there is a dream in this world that keeps me going. i couldn't tell you what it is. it's not the one i go to sleep to. it's the fantasy of living. it's the sudden suppositions. the endless whimsical places. the problem being, we get older, and so easily forget about the places that we so unknowingly left behind. in a fit of independence. a hasty self-sufficiency. the parts of us we gave to love. or when we spent all our money on solidarity. existence can be such a joker. we've lost. we lose ourselves in the vastness of reality. the supposition of tranquility. and love. watched the movies as children. and felt the way we wanted. don't fool yourself. justification is a joke. who are you kidding.