I hear there are great....

It's nights like this when I can't sleep, I write. I write pointless, random nonsense that's floating around in my head, so I don't have to carry it with me. But I can't let go of it all, not at all once.

I think I am interest person. If you hang out with me, you're guaranteed to have a good time. Through text, through just that alone, you'd figure I'm some depressed, music-addicted, slightly disturbed Diva of the West Side. But I'm not that person. I just...don't filter anything out. It's all there, I didn't know that's how life worked. I knew that's how games worked. Lie upon lie, doesn't matter. It turns out you have to lie all the time. Maybe someday I'll tell the truth.

I love narcissists. Not because of the abuse they inflict on those who love them, not anymore, but because they love themselves. They're sickeningly obsessed with themselves. I think I envy that. But they are flawed. They can't (or have trouble) disconnecting from themselves. I've never been connected. I just give all the time. It's hard to hold the mask up for so long, but I'm getting better. I'm still perfecting this persona.

I don't look like I'm supposed to be here. I'm too awkward, too frail, too emotional. I hate lying though. It makes me sick. But if I'm myself, I make people sick. A Perfect Lie, right?

...restaurants, out west, some of the best.