tomorrow will be a day, as well.

eight years. i cant believe it.

one line sentences.

i learned something this week.

sadie the goat was a whore in new york in the 1800s. she had an ear bit off in a fight.

thats what i learned.

theres more to her story, but that's pretty much the highlight.

for a few days this week my hands smelled like butane.

i touched a lighter maybe five times, lit one candle, and the smell stayed with me.

i took showers, washed my hands, all that good stuff, but it stayed with me.

so maybe its a sign that im not supposed to smoke cigarettes.

i had cold chili and a warm cinnamon bun for supper tonight.

for lunch i had a tiny pizza.

yesterday i had warm chili and a warm cinnamon bun and chicken fingers with ranch dressing and fries and some of my salad.

i had forgotten about the chicken fingers on.

jermiah was a bullfrog. he was a good friend of mine. i never understood a word he said but i helped him drink his wine.

flood and fire.

eight years.

i told a friend, tonight, that if she kept on smoking i would take up smoking to get her to stop.

she said i'm full of a shit because she knows how i feel about smoking.

but she didnt know that my mom smoked.

she smoked while pregnant with me.

the mom, not my friend, that is.

i told the friend this and the friend said "so thats why youre so fucked up."

because my friend loves me.

eight fucking years.

come unto me like children shouldnt be literal. little girls and little boys should never have to die.

true loves shouldnt have to die, either.