Friday, June 06, 2003

Screaming Pakistani children only a few feet away, their shrill little horrifed shrieks carrying across the dead air between here and there with a clarity otherwise reserved for $1,000-a-second recording studios. Spencer the Swollen-Lipped Cat screaming on the other side of the door, convinced that all sorts of funky shit is going down in here and I can't let him in 'cause there's the wrong kind of food in here and he'll scarf it down and get all sick. It's hot and stuffy and smells vaugely of the shit of three cats, and here I am, miles from home, typing away and preparing for a night of actually decent sleep.

Yeah, kitty-sitting at Richie's, in Brooklyn, dead dog shit tired and hoping that it'll get cool enough and quiet enough to make sleeping a possibility. Been working through a pantheon of PS One greatest hits since I got here, maintaining the tv embargo even far from home. The test will be the next hotel room I stay in. Can't drink without smoking; can't hotel without tv. We'll see.

Too trashed to write anything useful. Pakistani sounds like a caricature of a language. At least, it does when it's being screamed by a mother at her children.

Rifles, gasoline, a lack of conscience, please.

Oh, yeah. Fucking Hope let Joe Young die from rat poison. Torch her place tonight, if there weren't a billion cats and birds inside. Why oh fucking why are people so heartless?

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