I Like Your Stuff.

CNN wanted to do a story on my friend, and he was gonna have me be him on the news, because he didn’t wanna do it, but he decided to tell those guys to fuck off. Which were his real words. The guy who was going to produce the segment told my friend that he needed to do the story because his two little girls were poor and needed new shoes, because they didn’t have any shoes. It’s probably good he refused them. CNN has nothing to offer anybody, except maybe some shoes for those two little girls. I’m still working in the Charles Schwab mail-room, which is deeply underground, way underneath the Charles Schwab building. I have a picture of my friend riding a bicycle. He has a backpack on, is wearing a beanie, and is laughing, and is riding so fast that he’s a little blurry. I don’t know why he tore the picture before giving it to me, or where he was riding in the photo, or who took the photo. He gave it to me, and I like it. And he cheered me up by reminding me of a few key things. I’m in my boxers, having a bite of a tuna sandwich that serves as both dinner, for tonight, and breakfast, for tomorrow. I bought it at a gas station where the attendant told me “if yer not gonna rob me, then get the fuck outta here so somebody else can.” I’m sitting on the mattress. I’ve got a can of mace beside me. It’s made of pepper juice and I wanna spray it onto my sandwich.