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He’s sleeping while I’m awake in a zombie-like trance. My eyes hurts and my nose feels like incredibly stuffy. I want to sleep but just can’t find the lack of energy.

I have the play in a few hours. I’m really wishing he didn’t want me to go. I’m glad he took my no to two weeks in Kentucky with his parents-no because that…would have been hell. I read the Maddox book, felt it was humorous but not nearly worth paying for. I can’t find pieces to my cellphone that were present before I left. I can’t stablize the atoms in this room, they are excite and creating friction. I can’t sleep when it is this hot, when the sparks are flying everywhere. I hate it when he tells me we have similar beliefs when I know he thinks Murderworld would be a morbid atrocity. What does he know about murder? It is easy to call capitalizing on people paying to kill people (Hostel stole my idea) hellishly immoral but I figure it is the next stage in human evolution. We hunted everything else on this planet why not hunt each other? And why not make a profit. Isn’t that the capitalist idea he keeps drilling into me. Isn’t that economics. Profits is all people care about these days anyway. Money. I-22, II-127. I feel sick for thinking it but I am only half-joking. I wouldn’t have the initiative or the rash ignorance to do something like that. He can be so judgemental. So quick to judge me judging others and never once realize he’s no better than me. Atleast my judging has wit and reasonablity. I make observation, point them out, people laugh. It is what I do. He knows that. I did it to him the first time we met. I don’t know why after four years I would suddenly do an about-face. Besides the clever ones never get their feelings hurt.

I wish I could see the old house one more time. I think about it from time to time. I grew up there. I remember the yearly flying ants that infested the basement that drove my mother mad, the burst pipe that my father let turn into a flood, the wall passageways I would play in with my friends. Sometimes I think that was my only home and it will probably stay that way. The house in Georgia never grew on me. It was a nice house but it never felt like home. My mother would probably agree with that statement. She never thought Georgia was home. New Jersey, now that’s home. She calls me from time to time and ask “When are you coming home?” Like the whole state amasses that place and those warm memories of my childhood. In a way I suppose it does but when I think of New Jersey I do not think of home, I think of that shit-hole I escaped from and would never stay in longer than a week ever again. I need to find a new home. New Orleans envokes those feelings and Andy could use the company. He’s told me I would have a place to stay if I went there. That means a lot but he is one of my closest friends despite the rough patches I know I can depend on him. I tell him things I would be ashamed to think and he shows me thinks I wouldn’t otherwise get the chance to see. He doesn’t judge and he delights in my “observations”. I wish I would take his offer but I know I won’t. Not because New Orleans would mistreat me but because I’m waiting this out.

Why did I agree to this play?

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