I'm Into, Oh Murders And Executions Mostly.

I Tried To Make Meat Loaf Out Of The Girl But It Becomes Too Frustrating A Task And Instead I Spend The Afternoon Smearing Her Meat All Over The Walls, Chewing On Strips Of Skin I Ripped From Her Body

I Stare Into A Thin, Web-like Crack Above The Urinal's Handle And Think To Myself That If I Were To Disappear Into That Crack, Say Somehow Miniaturize And Slip Into It, The Odds Are Good That No One Would Notice I Was Gone. No... One... Would... Care. In Fact Some, If They Noticed My Absence, Might Feel An Odd, Indefinable Sense Of Relief. This Is True: The World Is Better Off With Some People Gone. Our Lives Are Not All Interconnected. That Theory Is Crock. Some People Truly Do Not Need To Be Here.

I Learned That You Really Don't Have Any Control As A Writer. Waah, Waah, Waah. Big Deal. Unless You're The Director On The Movie, Or Putting Up The Money For The Movie, You Really Don't Have A Lot Of Control. As Someone Who's Just Writing Scripts, You Just Kind Of Have To Shrug. I Have No Problems Or Issues With Screenwriting In General. It Is What It Is.

I've Been Accused Of Being Very Vain About My Apathy.

She Sits Before Me, Sullen But Hopeful, Characterless, About To Dissolve Into Tears. I Squeeze Her Hand Back, Moved, No, Touched By Her Ignorance Of Evil. She Has One More Test To Pass. Do You Own A Briefcase?” I Ask Her, Swallowing.