I didn't feel well at all yesterday. My entire body ached. It could be that I have gone back into the gym and am trying to regain my teenaged body. Or. . . you know. . . it could be The Covid. I've been out and about. It would feel like a small flu, I'm guessing, given that I've had Everything. Could be that or it could be that I hadn't eaten much for awhile. Just drink and drugs. Oh, I want to be a skinny wastrel. I need to do coke, I guess, or smoke crack, but I think there are fat coke and crack addicts, too.
What I need is to get out on the highway. California is the place I oughta be. I'll rent a Cadillac convertible and put on Oakley Hall--the band, not the writer--though I could do with both. I'll be a version of Harry Dean Stanton, the son of him and Sam Shepard. I'll sleep in cheap motels on the outskirts of desert towns and write poignant vignettes. I'll be as anonymous and unknown as a man can be.
Chicken dinners and beer and whiskey, just like tonight. Cameras and highways and truck stop strippers. I can see it all stretching out before me like a movie dream.
Sounds like big trouble. You're going to need plenty of legal advice before this thing is over. As your attorney, I advise you to rent a very fast car with no top. And you'll need the cocaine. Tape recorder for special messages. Acapulco shirts.
Yes. . . and yes! There comes a time in life where few options are available and there are fewer things you truly wish to do. But open highways and opportunity. . . that, my friends, is the American Dream.
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