in london, one week in, mission statement:

allclones must be killed. now. it's not fair to my poor, aching heart/libido (same fucking difference) amd they are very dangerousand sticky like flies, and you shouldn't ever listento the make up next to a sleeping clone becauseitwill tempt youtempt you tempt you....

i have finished everything is illuminated it was good but i don'ttotallyget it....dumbblonde

idon'tdrinkenoughcosi have no money.

myjob is ok but i don't want to do this foralivingbecause it is permanently boring and it mightbe okay with music but the books suckthey'reall nonfiction i was editing one today and i don't udnerstand british englishgrammar....

i truly miss my posse and my car and the states and toilets called bathrooms and real vegan food and ahyans and showers that stay on and sinks with one tap and everything beinga normal price and subways that are dirty and air conditionedand make sense and impossible boys and parties and kirbyand sneakersand free internet and tvand dog and garden and bully and itsokaytobegay and USP and peppermint schnapps

i miss my fair city

NY return to me=(

(a wish)

i have lotsof poetry and songs that i can type when i get home...

but not now.

now i must go because i have no morebleeding money.