Well, Capote and I were thick as thieves last night. I don't know that I've ever seen a more vivid pastel suit than the one he was wearing and it perfectly matched his cocktail. We help to solve a crime involving and upscale daycare. Oh don't worry, it was nothing too traumatic. It was just parents loosing their shit that other kids were getting better treatment than their own and how dare this be blahblahblah.
I hope I can dream about Kerouac tonight. Perhaps we can have a drink (that's funny and wrong because he died from complications of alcoholism - the writer's true death-) I lived in the same neighborhood he did in Orlando when he was awaiting the release of "On the Road". That particular neighborhood rather reminds me of Austin.
I'd love to have a dream out on the sea with Hemmingway. As long as he didn't try to off himself (the writer's 2nd favorite method of death).
There was one of those dumb quizzes several years back about what self-destructive writer were you most like. I think I was Fitzgerald. I'll have to see if I can find that and take it now. I've mended most of my self-destructive ways so I hope I'm more, more, more. Uhh ohh. I can't think of one who lived to a ripe old age.
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