091607

                                                                                                       San Antonio, TX

Sunday September 16, 2007
                   
     9:38pm  I just bought me my new recorder at the Walmart on Culebra and Loop 1604. My mom gave me forty bucks. I cleaned all badass today and my bag is all packed and by the door. I am ready to go. I got delayed by the wasp stings. I was fine the whole time. I can barely feel them anymore. My mom is so cool. She got back from Houston and gave me the money so I could replace the recorder I ruined in the creek. I have been working on my site letting it evolve little by
little.
                   Anyway, I'm driving home now. I'm going to go to sleep. I am ready to go. My mom doesn't want me to leave. She's pleading with me not to. She really loves me. I gotta go do what I gotta do. To the East Coast. I might get shot. I don't care. I am ready to die. It's so obvious and blatant and in my face how fucked up the world is. Why isn't this obvious to everybody?? I've kind of been spooked away from spraypainting the fence. See, I got this random email from my
Dad. It's weird because I never check my hotmail anymore. The one time I did he emailed me the day before. He knows my iamsanantonio address. I don't know why he didn't just mail that. He told me that his enemies have been asking him for my address.
                   I don't give a fuck now. I am really sick of this now. I don't care if I die or not. This would be so totally worth it. I'm not going to stop. But, I'm not going to spraypaint the fence either. That just might get me taken out before my stuff really takes off. Or, that just might make my stuff take off. I don't know. I was thinking I might just not do it all big. I'll write it small. I still haven't arranged a ride for that night I want to do it. It would probably take me a good minute to write out OLD TEZEL NEEDS A SIDEWALK! I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm glad I have a recorder again. No more losing history.

Next day..

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