cellini's Diaryland Diary

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Get Me the Fuck Out of Texas

I've been on the road with Helenah for the last 2 weeks and rarely had internet access for more than a few minutes at a time every other day or so.

There's lots of stuff to write about here and I don't have time right now. What it all comes down to is that I've just lived an entire novel and I want it to stop now. The catfish joints and the drunks on Bourbon street and signing autographs and hot sex in cheap hotels and roadside attractions and driving real fast with loud music and crossing into Texas and running down wild boar on foot armed only with a knife, and a trunk full of guns, and the director of my film grabbing my cock through my jeans under the table at dinner, and Willie Nelson on the radio, and taking a blonde Swedish bombshell into the dry goods store in the hill country to buy a hunting license, and heartbreak, and protecting my kill from the coyotes in the night, and losing my wedding ring, and a kiss at the airport and not knowing which one to miss more, and not knowing if I still have a home to go back to, and packing up to leave without any idea of where I am going while Christmas music is playing on the radio.

I wanted hard, honest living. And I fucking well got it. I just lived the great American novel and I want off now, please. I want to go home, if I can. I'm 1,600 miles away with a few hundred dollars to my name and I just want my life back.

Great literature is not worth the life that it takes to produce it. I want to go home. Get me the fuck out of Texas. I want to go home.

5:02 p.m. - 2011-11-16

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