My head feels as if its swelling. It might explode. I hope that it will. I hope that my head will burst and everything locked up inside will splatter all over inside my empty and bare-walled apartment room.

Talk to me. I want to sit down or walk with someone and just exchange brain fluids. I might catch something. That exxxcites me. I want to get sick, you know, like how people talk about love being a virus, or an idea catching on like an epidemic? Maybe my brain is swelling because its too healthy, too sterile and maybe my immune system is getting bored and attacking healthy brain cells because their boring and because my immune system is sexually frustrated.

Anyway. I just read some notes David Choe includes in his book of art, Bruised Fruit, and also an interview of August Wilson, and Wilson talks about how he's trying to find a place to write in Seatle and is having a tough time--he went to this place where a bunch of writers sit down and write and he wasn't feeling it. He playfully says that it's like his muse got into an argument with someone elses muse and got kicked out of the restaurant. He says in the interview that he liked to write in restaurants and bars when he was a 20 year old poet, and once when he was writing on a napkin, the waitress sayd something profound: "Do you write on napkins because it doesn't count?" I mean, wow. I wonder if she went home and hammered at her memoir, or maybe she's an actress who writes screen plays and works at a restaurant. I know this girl who moved to New York a couple years ago and she's doing what she called the "starving actress in new york" thing, working at restaurants and going to auditions, but then she got sick and tired of working at restaurants so now she teaches at the Princeton Review and she pretty much rocks at it. Wouldn't you like an Actres-Teacher?

So yeah, I love you. Love me, back, harder and faster, and god, I hope this feeling lasts forever.