Hey, guess what. Someone made this art of me. It was part of a fat love mail exchange. Wow, amazing.
They said they looked at public pics of me on facebook and understood me. Isn’t it cool? With strangers like this, who needs friends! Hahahaha–just kidding. I need you, reader.
But sometimes strangers are better at being friends than friends, huh? Stranger love can feel so good. The only problem is I threw away the envelope it came in, before I could get the address.
Ugh! Mail fail! They signed it El Poche. So if you know El Poche, please thank them for me, and try to get their address, so I can send them thank you zines.
“Did I mess my hair up?” Ming asked. He’d just taken off his shirt.
“You can’t mess your hair up–it’s only messed up.”
“Ok,” he said.
“Like you can’t kill someone who’s dead,” I added. We were laughing. We don’t own a comb or a brush, you know; we use our fingers. That’s the kind of hippies we are.
Well, we have a comb, but it’s in the first aid kit for removing cholla cactus. Hahahaha.
I boiled my ginger tea till it was ginger syrup, apparently. My right hand is fucked up from over-typing. Love to all.