Californication’s end of season three was disastrous. I wish underage fucking wouldn’t remind me so much of my ex.
I got ID’d when buying my friend a beer. The cashier found out I was ten years older than I was supposed to. She blushed. I’m sure it’s not my height; it’s those damn freckles.
I’m tired of being with party animals who, in the end, complain about hangovers and being sick the next day. I’m sick, not from partying, but from working. When I don’t join my friends, I always wonder whether I was missing out on anything.
My subconscious is angry, and so is my kidney.
I can’t even secretly smoke a cigarette. It would taste nice in the cold night, but I don’t want my kidney to suffer more.
I’m sick of telling you things. What else is there to do if you are boring and not telling me anything? Ok, it’s not you that’s boring, but the condition of this environment. (I’m looking for things and people to blame.)