Beat you to it.

Sometimes I wish I had a single parent like Hank Moody and was an only child living like Becca, but without the death rock black lipstick from season one. It would be like Californication, but with less writing and more cooking, and less longing for New York and more pining for the Jersey shore. But then I remember that I already have a half-assed Hank Moody and if he really were like Hank Moody we'd be living in a boat off the Florida keys and I would just be a tanner more self-absorbed and version of myself who would be hoping the fence to Hemingway's house than climbing the wall of the Barnes Foundation, and smoking more marijuana and drinking less gin.

I think it's the fact that I peaked too early in my world of responsibility. About mid-high school I wanted to do things, see stuff. I had a fucking ten year plan. Really it was just some bullshit that I made up ten minutes before a scholarship interview that would make me look good in front of the committee. They ate it up. Everyone always eats it up, the only person who sees through the crap is Lance, and that's only because I learned my deviousness from him, I'm just not sure where the less-genuine part came from. It certainly did not come from my mother, more likely the bitter struggle of the play ground and having fat thighs or some shit like that. Right now I just want to finish this stuff up and move to Tucson and start up that male prostitution ring that I've been knocking around with a friend. Wouldn't that be a kick? Or maybe Portland, Oregano. I recently watched the pilot of Portlandia starring Fred Armisen. The dream of the nineties is alive in Portland, where the tattoo ink never runs dry. The late nineties sucked balls on the playground, but I remember the early nineties being a pretty cool time. Portland aside, Philadelphia it's been cool and we'd better make the best of precious little time we have left together.