“You’ll make more.” He’s right. Like kisses, creativity, and every little moment, I am going to get more, make more, love more, take more, feel more, share more, cry more, and beam more. My mantra, “You should be here with me, living our life,” echoes out quite often, but I love you despite it. Thank you for giving my life meaning and scarcity: a beacon of grace and a complete mystery. Coins I pocket, flip, spend, and savor all my life. I love you. Happy Birthday.

Brat summer, bratwurst summer, and boat summer. 24, 25, and 26. Three of these left if I’m lucky and I’ll be sucking the meat off the bones. Breathing it out (breaths of fire), and living my life as it’s meant to be lived: crucial and rare. I usually get what I want, and I’d save you if you wanted saving. Instead I’ll pet the caged dog on my way back to the city. I understand. I’m unique. But why? Don’t you want to suck the meat off the bones?

I have never had more agency. I’ve never been more willing to surrender. I’ve never lived on a boat before, but I feel the wave sweeping me up, gently, quickly, and I see myself willed into my own dreams. Ripe, ugly, and beautiful, the kelp is ready to be harvested and dried, and a seafaring vessel is bound for a new shore. Is it paradise? Talk to me in an hour…

A moment like this is rare. A moment like this dissipates suddenly, slowly in the night like smoke. A moment is only made of all the moments preceding it, and that’s how I know this moment is real. And hey – it could be Rebecca Black’s “My Moment” but I am content with that. For the first time in a long time, I do not fear failure, embarrassment, or doughy crust. I only fear not jumping. Not barking or making, and not finding an option out of this idea. My fear is falling off the mountain before meeting the horizon and that’s something I’d never do. I’m ready to let myself go.

This year, I’ll send a Christmas card for the first time on my own. On my own. It has a nice feeling to it. And then I’ll survive this year. I’ll thrive in it.

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Musing is both more passive and more instrumental than creating. I’ve been a muse a lot in my life. How does Amber Rose feel right now? I doubt proud. I’m proud of you and me, but I’m not proud to be your muse. To give you the radical honesty I crave, I feel shame to be your muse and it’s shame I constructed, perfected, and welcome. I feel used. Each time I let you take me, I am jealous of the time you take and the art you make and the orgasm radiating through you while I simply watch. Is that why I can’t get it done? How important are they really?

A chilly, organized night turns oddly cold while driving down the Palisades Interstate Parkway (PIP from here on). It’s just darkness cascading into darkness. Deer never appear and the sun never rises, but it feels like both are swirling and inevitable. Something is around every bend. I feel that. Yet as I glance frantically between road and rear view mirror hoping for something, nothing appears. I never accept it, but it’s true. I’m going to go home, go to bed, go to work, and that’s it.

Are you allowed to feel used when you’re compensated? He warns you over and over and over again, so are you allowed to feel hurt? Actually, who the fuck cares if I’m allowed? Rules are made up until they aren’t and you can’t blame your failures on speeding tickets or school buses. If you fail, you failed. If you followed the rules, the rules exist. If you don’t create, you’re not an artist.

I’ve never made my own art in Coney Island. Never. And I’ve made a lot of art in Coney Island. I’ve made promises there. I’ve told lies, climbed poles, danced naked, chased the birds, and yet I’ve never made my own art in Coney Island. Or Fire Island. Or on the island of Manhattan. Ok, that last one was a lie, but it’s been quite a while and the ratio is still piss-poor. I say all this yet I keep musing. Even today, when I’ve made my life hard and satisfying, my world rough and crunchy, my tits two sizes bigger, and my mind beautiful, I lay in bed after dinner while my dreams lay across the room. I exhaust myself for you, yet rest for me. The gentle fall of the rain relaxes me. I stand in front of the camera and just smile. I used to be afraid at that and now it’s of that. Cut the shit my boy. What do you want to achieve?

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I apologize, but I have been edging my essay and I don’t wanna stop.

It’s going to be a little sexual for a second, but this is my blog and I get to do whatever I want. I’m not your pet.

Why does edging carry a positive connotation if it’s merely procrastinating your pleasure? Procrastination is identical yet hated upon. When I procrastinate, it’s not a bad habit or something I need to correct. It’s pleasure. It’s my kink. It’s building the anticipation within me as to maximize the bliss when it comes out. I feel sexy when I accomplish my goals. Let me ride the wave, feel it all, add stress and sweat to the process. It’s gonna feel sooooo good when it’s over.

I think I’m lying to myself a lot these days and it’s fucking up my life a little bit. Whatever. I’m not finishing anything except into him. Again. and Again. and Again. I’m certainly not finishing any essays.

There are some things in life you let go of forever and others you just set down for a while. You never know which is what until it happens. I quit smoking vs. I’m quitting smoking. I’m edging vs. it’s not gonna happen tonight. Learning vs. failing. What are we? And what should we be? I don’t want to finish my essays because it means it will be over – and what will I have to show for myself? It’s so hard when the tangible result is yourself.

I’m in no rush to get anything done. You see, the world has already ended. Professor, I’m sorry but I forgive myself for turning in my essay months late. I forgive myself for edging all night instead of working on saving the world. I forgive myself for making the McEconomy go brrrrr and losing myself to dancing and debauchery each weekend. I forgive myself for writing a perverse blog that renders me unemployable. I forgive the homophobes and the queers who hate fun and I forgive the bouncers when they turn me away. Have a lovely evening.

I’ll do better next time I promise. I love you. Do you still love me? What if I edged you a little longer?

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Extinction Rebellion used to meet in the basement of my job. I never went. I left that job and moved on to a better paying, larger institution deeper in the belly of the beast. They fired me a month later. The old gallery closed too, and I don’t know where Extinction Rebellion meets anymore. I’m sure I could find out.

On the weekend I party in parks, on beaches, and down the stairs. During the week, I struggle to pay my bills because I spend my days “helping” people. Most of them don’t succeed. I’m in the largest institution there is, yet I’m powerless and I can’t get any deeper. I’m a cog – of course I’m doomed to fail.

“As our own chief executives, it’s our obligation to make our own lives better,” Luigi said in his manifesto. “The recoil of the gun – did it sting, down his back?” asked a Twitter user. Nothing is black and white, we know this, but right and wrong are still opinions we form. What he did to me was wrong and cruel. What he did was right and necessary. These can be both be true. It’s really up to you.

I go to Miami to feel the harshest sun known to man. Nobody gets sunburned like I do. I go to Miami to see the people I see each weekend in New York, eat the same meals, and feel the same, unbearable, all-consuming existential dread. I’m not doing enough. I don’t love enough and I don’t care enough. I write it in my journal over and over like a maniac who forgets his name: A new place doesn’t make you different. Only you can make you different. I’ll be in LA in a few weeks.

I want to change the world. I really do, and it makes me pathetic. What have I ever successfully changed? Tires, my clothes, and one time I hit somebody. I don’t do that anymore. I don’t cheat anymore. I don’t steal anymore. Maybe one day I won’t get my hopes up anymore. Maybe one day it’ll all be different.

Luigi is going to be murdered. Do the people get this? An eye for an eye is perfectly balanced. Luigi is going to be murdered and I feel deeply for him, because Luigi wanted to change the world and we are united in that goal. Luigi can’t anymore, but I could.

I have not killed anyone, do not intend to kill anyone, and would not kill anyone even if they were my enemy. The high road is going somewhere. So is the low road I suppose. There’s definitely some middle of the roads too. Who’s gonna get there first? And how slippery is the slope?

Genuinely, I am holding space for Paulette and her family. It’s not black and white. That’s the problem with world changers. They work in Technicolor and tend to leave collateral damage. Maybe that’s why I haven’t changed the world. Perhaps my world isn’t colorful enough yet. If I can get there, where will I be then? It might be awfully scary. Is Luigi is scared of himself right now?

Editor’s Note: I COULD NOT CARE LESS ABOUT THIS BEING THE THIRD DEAD PETZ SONG ON HERE. THAT ALBUM WAS UNDERAPPRECIATED BY SOCIETY. SO I SHALL APPRECIATE IT NOW. MYSELF.

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The first time he didn’t stay the night, I didn’t believe him and I was right. This time, I have to believe myself and that’s a daily, delusional act. To stand up for one’s self is beautiful but it takes a fuckton of muscles and it might leave you weak and raw wondering if all that effort was really worth it. I can buy myself flowers even if it sends my account into collections.

What we eat will either heal or murder us. It’s true, and yet sometimes we still don’t know exactly what we’re eating. We’ll find out when we see the effects, and some of those won’t be seen for decades. The internet makes a joke of it, but I study the microplastics. They won’t kill us, but they’ll make us infertile, deaf, and dumb. They’ll do it slowly, but surely. A chronic uncoupling is worse than a quick one, yea?

What we make shows the world what we are made of. I created a place for love, discovery, intimacy, and vulnerability in my life, but it wasn’t welcomed. Maybe I didn’t create what I intended. Maybe something else leached in. Something toxic. Either way, now I need to make something new. Out of love.

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Today is my birthday and it’s also my blog’s birthday and it’s also a 14-hour day.

I’m still consuming, I’m no angel, but my net output is positive right now. It’s art, it’s research, it’s affection, it’s full of possibilities, and now it’s a blog. The world is a sponge, and I am like water. Suck me up I’m loving the feeling. Spit me out I don’t care it’s all a cycle. When I eat, I eat good. When I’m eaten, I taste good.

I think I change the world more than the average person. Not more than the average world-changer, but more than the average person. Is that bragging? I think it is, but I’ve got to do it. Because more people need to change the world.

You should change the world. We should change the world together. That’s the idea here – to change the world together. Cheese is delicious. So delicious that sometimes it’s worth the factory farm, the methane, the refrigerator, the polymer plastic packaging, and the pain in my gut. I’m not even lactose intolerant. I just liked finishing the thread with my personal pain. For me that pain is in my brain.

There is going to be a lot of lying. There will also be facts. Come along, why not?

In the morning, I took an intense shower and bumped the air purification to three. Barely dressed, I sterilized a knife, the surface, and my hands. In the incubator was my baby. I took the knife to her wounds and cut it all away. They’d grow another day even if they didn’t grow in the way I wanted them to. I’ll just keep trying. Keep growing.

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