+2, -8 (beat ‘gain after the test of the twenty: “Phayroh,” “cartel,” “your[sic] going off my appearance; ’round here, go around done uo, they nab you, hawl your ass in,” uhcedra…), +10, +10

at Jack-in-the-Box just morning later, tell me he’s in jail. . . .   and then, good lord, the awful awful awful taste of that first blast swinging a turn around on the wendy drive of the lonely botanical gardens.
get yur faith on, son, en beeleave me when i tell,: abiltiy to conveny much less physically move out any kind of verbal or keybored record stahnds always directly proiportionately at odds with recordability, i.e. the best times get shortest shrift. suffice it.

dis ‘as Big Ben by far–though it may strike anti-intuitively at first, especially contending with, say, finagling my way to experiencing heroin the first time with a junkie kicked out on the street, long-sleeve sweater in summer weather, turing tricks to bring home the chaffin’…or giving in to a little couch fugging with thickly grimed crack whores–the most stupid thing I’ve done, done by-self and to-self: sitting futzing with the icons on the laptop for hours, and hours, and hours on end, not even having very much fun.

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