cellini's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Without Place Once again, I'm fucking desperate for income. All of my shit for the Post and for Sl@te is being held up because of the fucking election and now the hurricane recovery. I don't get paid until it runs. More interviews, etc. Lots of fan mail lately. Its so strange to have all of these people kissing my ass. It doesn't do me any good. I don't understand why people want to be famous. Why anyone would want to get fan mail. There's no pay check that goes along with it. I caught about 30 fish in 10 seconds today. I drove to my honey hole and threw my net out and pulled it in and had over 30 fish on the first throw. About half of them were keepers. I threw a few more times and then went home with 22 keepers. No more than 15 minutes out there to catch quite a lot of food. A few days ago I returned from a wedding in MA. Random people knew who I was. They wanted me to tell stories, like about the time I ate the w0rld's hottest pepp3r. Or about the bear that I killed with a knife. Oh, what do I do about it all? I feel sort of ruined. I've done too many things that are too far outside of what people normally experience nowadays. A long time ago I stopped caring whether I lived or died. That was why I hunted the boars in Texas with just a knife. That was why I killed the bear last month with only a knife. I've done all of these things that make me *something else.* I'm supposed to be distant most of the time. I'm a spectacle and perhaps something to aspire to. But I don't seem to belong anywhere anymore. 10:57 p.m. - 2012-11-01 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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