my right hand started to have big bad bruisesss. an unlikely equavalent to workout to Greg Puciato, unfortunately i started to felt weak.
no tradiional art.
no digital art,.... the possibility of the medium to happen can be measure to lightyears.
i wanted to kill the housemates so bad. i begin to feel that they're the reason i'm dying , out of work of art, books, calculus core hooligans, stimulatous conversation.
i'm living w/ idiots who bring-in the girls almost every nite, fornication, fornication, speed.
i started to write in my head.
sometimes i rather be at work, 24/7. what the hell w/ living.
unfortunately, dayjob still unable to pay my rent, debts, bills, death & texas.
this is the end of an escape artist who kept his coma diary in his head. i keep writing, writing ....... in my mind. hidden treasure they will be lost. i'm not making any money (oh, i did, but the salival transfusion still not happen).
i'm not happy anymore but still keep cool. dope. this stomach knots.
they said "move out..."
8 months from now.
* Mood: Sarcastic
* Listening to: "Black Bubblegum" - Dillinger Escape Plan
* Reading: "Siapa(w/o quesionare)" - Aadi Salman
* Watching: Punch-Drunk Love
* Playing: afternoon overture
* Eating: Squiggles, oh crap...
* Drinking: Ace
