So I might be a published author. Maybe. Probably not.

I've kept a personal journal for a long time. It covers the past eight years, I'd say. I actually sent it out to quite a few publishers. And was rejected by all. All but one. When I called, the cunt I talked to told me what I sent in was 'under secondary review'. Whatever the fuck that means.

It's a journal, but it reads like a collection of short stories.
I'll share one of my favorites with you. Tell me how much you dislike it.
Also, in copying and pasting [fuck Word. Notepad ftw] the format got fucked.
Cry about it.





Sometime in the late summer of 2005.

Somewhere in West Hollywood.









I had been in Los Angeles for a while at this point. I had started out doing character and SFX makeup, but computers took my job away from me. Long gone are
the days of rubber monster suits with visible zippers running up the spine. Welcome to the age of digital bullshit and even worse acting. Hello, Hollywood.
Anyway, I was now doing makeup for porn. It took pretty much all the fun out of masturbating. It made me feel like I was taking my work home with me. So my
work days were spent chatting with oddly proportioned naked people while I applied generous amounts of makeup to the oddly proportioned areas. It wasn't
fun, it wasn't glamorous, but it provided me with enough dough to support my drug and alcohol habits, so I didn't have much to complain about. I'm not saying
that actually stopped me from complaining, but it did make the complaints slightly less valid.

I had recently taken up with a trainwreck of a human being. She wasn't pretty. She wasn't smart or even a good time. But she had drugs, and she seemed to know
the majority of the trust fund babies living in my neck of the woods. So in those ways, she provided me with things to do. Things I wouldn't have been able to afford. Like
high quality drugs, foreign booze, and comfortable furniture. I guess we'll call this broad Joan. Mostly because I'm listening to Joan Jett. So, like I said, Joan
was a fucking train wreck. She wound up hitching a ride over to LA on FEMA's dime [that dime being made up of a few of my pennies. And some of yours.] after
Katrina hit. Joan was definitely fucking FEMA. She was also fucking everyone who smiled at her. Or didn't. Because if you didn't smile at her, that
made you FUCKING TOUGH and she wanted you all the more. When she wasn't fucking people, or FEMA, she was fucking herself with scissors. Literally. I
wish I was making that up, but I'm not. I never watched her do it in person, but I saw the pictures. These were not quality digital images that could
pass for art. Not even LA. These were well-worn, bent and grimey polaroids that had obviously passed through a number of hands. I would be lying if I said
that I didn't think the pictures were interesting. I mean, first of all it's a polaroid. Second, the subject is a freakishly pale, horse faced and seemingly
emaciated [from the heoin and coke use] woman with a large pair of sewing sheers in her vagina. Legs spread, blood smeared on her hands and inner thighs.
What interested me the most was the fact that in addition to the fresh, almost pink blood, was an abundance of dried blood. She'd been at it for a while.

That's just where the fun started with Joan, though. Now I was coked out of my god damned mind every time I was around her, so I could be remembering some
of what I'm about to write incorrectly. I almost hope that I am. But I'm probably not. So the first time she told me the story that I'm about to tell you,
we were hanging out with about six of her really snobby friends. A small sampling of the trust fund babies I mentioned earlier. So, yeah. We're in their
2500 dollar a month downtown hollywood apartment. You can tell it's old, and would probably be really nice if not for the curtains dividing the roominto four different sections. I later learned that these sections were actually rooms that people slept in. Turns out the trust fund baby
[we'll call him Jesse from now on] that was on the lease apparently spent all of the money his parents sent him a month on heroin, and as a result had to divy up the place and rent it out to his fellow users. At one point some waspy girl whispered to me that "Jesse's" dealer lived in one of the rooms, which made me
laugh. There were a lot of reasons for that laughter, and I'm going to explain them to you:

A) Calling these sections 'rooms' almost did the job all by itself. Prisoners in solitary confinement have more room.

B) She whispered. Whispering has always seemed bizarre to me, but whispering something so harmless really got to me. I may have teared up had I not been so dehydrated
from the mountains of coke I'd been vacuuming up my nose all night.

C) This just solidified my opinion of LA. No matter how good you are at what you do, and how much money you make, it's never enough.

So, I originally set out to tell you the tale of the tale that Joan told me that night. Sorry. I got sidetracked. Joan, out of no where and rather abruptly leans
in and tells me in what she must have thought passed for a coy manner, "I've been fucking and sucking since I was ten years old." I just stared at her. Maybe
she took my glazed over yet open-way-too-wide eyed stare as some form of interest. Maybe she didn't care. Maybe I looked like the type that enjoyed tales
of woe. Whatever the reason, she told me the whole sordid tale. It went something like this:

"So I grew up in New Orleans. When I was ten, I had this science teacher named Mr.Moodle, and I was in love with him. I wrote him a note and told him.
He must have found my address in the school files or something because he came to my house two days later when I was at home sick and he made love to
me!"

Of course the story was much more lurid, but I've gotten rid of the more descriptive parts that were burned into my brain and left you with the quick
and slightly less disturbing version. Now, I'm no pedophile myself, but even if I did have a burning desire to fuck children, I don't think I'd go
near them while they had the flu. But maybe that's just me. I mean, my immune system is pretty shitty. Anyway, after she told me this story, she then asked
if I 'wanted to see her tits'. I declined. She then called me a faggot and ignored me for the rest of the night. Had she not ignored me, I would have missed out
on some other things. I learned how to turn a perfectly good apple into a perfectly good [and disposable, go green] pipe. I guess you could smoke tobacco out
of it, but we decided to smoke pot. A lot of it. I also would have missed seeing a cat eating dog shit, throwing up said dog shit, at which point the dog came
out of one of the 'rooms' and ate the cat puke. I'm pretty sure I started humming 'The Circle of Life'.

I got the fuck out of Los angeles four months later.