Killoggs : remember: always follow the golden rule!

Well, fuck-a-doo, Killoggs, how the hell are you? Moving back to BR -- however brief my stay here shall be -- was weird, and -- with this final car trip to Chicago -- finished: I went from being a nobody in a biggish city, fucking fat chicks and asians for lack of clout, to, well, being something of a mini-playa, which is also kind of really weird. Recently I was out and got 3 phone numbers from 2 moderately attractive girls and one fairly hot one. When does this happen? To me? Never before, probably not again. I'm really digging the perspective. And the knowing snicker I allowed myself when I saw some bitch I used to know tonight in Wal-Mart - man. Much has happened since late July, and I've responded some, but I haven't really talked much about anything. It's not that I've outgrown Killoggs. It's just that I don't have anything interesting to say.

No, you know what, that's not true, either, because I do care what some people here say and do.

You know what it is? Really?

The clubs have made us all pussies.

For instance: I no longer see: "I want to tit-fuck Kara so bad I actually have a hard-on right now thinking about it as I type this or shut the fuck up Milky or or hey judging from those last pictures, Julie isn't as hot as I thought she was

No body even writes in their journals anymore.

Instead, Killoggs reads like footnotes from a round of cranium; a particularly uninspired madlibs.

It's not about responses, people, it's about responsiveness. I can't find anything, right now, that I can respond to that I'm not getting elsewhere. Maybe some day, when I settle down, Killoggs can give me what I need.

The truth is Killoggs, is that I'm a whore, and if I can't get my needs met here, I know how to get them met elsewhere.

So, invite your friend over for a threesome, we'll do some coke. I'll strum my guitar. My neighbor will call the police.

I'll I know Killoggs is that in the last month I've spent time with Bejar; I went down on some girl in CH, I had a scotch with Dave Matthews, I threw up on a stripper outside of Temptations, I bought a car, I've done a ton of coke, I knocked up a girl but then she had her period - I've lived a full, fucking life and I've discovered the value of money, I got a sunburn so bad that it's still bleeding -- and I want more of it. Money is freedom, Killoggs, and freedom is the only thing in this world worth exerting yourself for. I've had a political re-awakening. It's called, money is freedom.

Get out of the clubs, Killoggs, if you've got a wart on your ass and some chick you'd like to bone - talk about it here. If you've got some scat-porn that reminds you of Conan's girlfriend in camouflage, post it here. Stop fucking whispering about it in dark corners. You know what the lesson of all of Kundera's books is - succinctly - vacate the political, the daring, the erotic, and the obscene from the public square and what will take it's place is kitsch, in no uncertain terms characterized as SHIT. Two things about shit - (1) Shit expands to cover all adjacent surfaces (2) shit levels every discourse it infiltrates.