I don't want to die and move to Florida.

I want to make people cry by writing something that they hate.

I don't want to pretend that everything is going to be all right. I want to know it.

I want to make someone understand.

I want to make someone stop and stare.

I want to make someone walk away thinking.

I want them all to just shut the fuck up.

I want a house in the woods with a subway stop in the basement. Preferably on the 1 and the 9 line.

I want to listen to every song ever written.

I want to read your poetry.

I don't want no peanut butter.

I don't want to really know how to play golf.

I want JAH to use me for sex.

I want to give you a brilliant headache.

I'm going to a meeting of the Underground Literary Alliance this weekend in Philadelphia. I have no idea what to expect. I'd never go alone, so I'm going with my beautiful girlfriend. They'll probably all talk to her and ignore me and then I'll have to squeeze in between them all afterwards at the bar in order to borrow 4 dollars from her purse for a beer so I can entertain myself under the television next to the cigarette machine. They'll talk about Hunter S. Thompson and Bukowski while I come up with witty first paragraphs to six more novels that won't go anywhere and will need lots of editing that I don't have time to do and she'll become the Joan Didion of our generation and I'll be stapling together the check stubs of her enormous royalties so we can put them in the filing cabinet that I finally got back from my ex-wife and she'll tell me how much she likes my writing and we'll be happy in love forever after.

Just.like.that.

I'll let you know how it goes.


- posted by seanmh @ 4:06 PM