80 Proof, Product of Ireland.

[jacktellslies]

I threw out all of my old notebooks a small while ago. Parker mistook the plastic bag into which I was throwing them and we took them home, by accident, and I threw them out all over again. The first things I ever tried to write were in there, as was the only evidence that I could be an artist, if I tried. Now it rots but does not disappear, somewhere. And I threw out my makeup today. For years I crafted intricate masks for myself every day, big glam things, cityscapes and messages and warrior marks. I never do, anymore, so it is well enough that they are gone, but it felt like throwing out the alter cloth. And even most of the things that I like are gone, now. But perhaps that was for the best. I mean to continue in this way, weeding out the unnecessary. I never want to drown in my things. I never want to be tied to something I cannot leave behind.

It is that day. I have not spoken to my father in four years. That still feels more strange than anything else. I am not as sad as I usually am today, but I'd rather not be alone. Parker and JJ and I are having dinner. It is kind of them. I'll fill my flask with Jameson tonight and pass it around the room.