Been in Asia too long. Now my grandmother is 80 and my nephew is two. My sister gave him away but still posts photo montages like she’s his mother. She only birthed him for the likes. I’d call her deplorable for that but then again I know I’d get excited over the Facebook likes if I got my girl pregnant. Wait no — actually, there wouldn’t be any. She said if she got pregnant that she wouldn’t tell me, and would instead run for an abortion in the night. I’d call her deplorable for that but then again I truly, truly love not having children.
I would visit home soon but I’d make everyone angry. All the drones who wish they’d escaped. Who invest invaluable life energy in Jon Fucking Snow and Beyonce lyrics. Get off Beyonce’s dick. I hate fans, I hate followers, unless they’re mine. You don’t need an idol; be your own idol. Go make something. Actually, don’t. Too many people are out there making shit. Stresses me the fuck out. Every expat here is writing a book. Stop writing your book. I know based on nothing but the look in your eyes that it is shit. You wear a tank top and have a dumb soul. Your brain was molded by Hey Arnold and Rugrats. You didn’t grow up next to a library like I did, writing is not your destiny.
Today I met some Israelis, met a girl I forgot I’d already met before, met a pilot, met a comedian who wasn’t funny. Then I was at a Buddhist temple. A man was burning money. I was languid in the heat. Creeping, taking the day in low gear so I could figure some shit out. Until I reached enlightenment. And I did. I decided I’m going to start making movies again. Because I like making them, they’re the only god damn way to get noticed. It’s gonna have to work, because I refuse to accept not being famous. If it doesn’t work then I’ll just start a cult. Worked for Buddha, and also Beyonce.