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I made a small painting last night. It was a nude painting. It was a line of cows walking into a slaughterhouse with naked women on their backs. The cows were naked and the women were naked. It's called "Nude Cows #1." I folded it up and put it in my pocket. I sat on the painting and crushed it. I thought about running into a burning building with it and not coming out.
 I wrote a book last night. I called it I have 100 pages that say I am smarter than you and have accomplished more with my life than you will ever accomplish with your life and that asshole boyfriend of yours, what's his name? I saved it to my hard drive and then threw the fucking computer off a cliff and followed it.
My mom called me last night. She said, When are you coming home, David. I said, When will someone understand?
I made a short film last night. I did it in one take. I stood in front of my refrigerator and opened the door and looked into the refrigerator and tried to think of what to eat. There is no dialogue. It's just me looking into the refrigerator, but what the audience can't see is that the refrigerator is empty, that there is no food, that there is a famine in the film. The film is ten minutes long. The last three minutes are me crying in front of the refrigerator and it was all real. I called the film I am so fucking hungry; god take my hands away from my face so I can see to find relief. I burned it to a blank DVR and sent it to the child I'm saving in Burundi. He has no mother or father. No girlfriend or wife. Just a brother and sister to take care of until starvation kills them. I want him to see that we're the same.
I drew a picture of my face last night. I made seven mistakes. My nose was too straight. My eyes were too symmetrical. My mouth was too beautiful. My hair was too perfect. My beard was too well-maintained. My forehead was too clear. And my ears. I forgot my ears. It didn't look like me. It was better. A me she could fall in love with. I hung it on my mirror and stared at it. I removed the mirror and threw it onto the roof.
I don't believe in the value of art.
She wrote a blog entry last night. She doesn't know I still read it. It was titled, "pictures from our trip to tennessee." Her on Lookout Mountain. Him on Lookout Mountain. Great scenery. I thought about posting an anonymous comment. What's it like being so high up? Can you see the past from there? What about the future?
I wrote a poem last night. It didn't rhyme. There was no meter. I called it When I see a dog's ribs I want to put my fingers between the dogs ribs and lift the dog until it's above my head and watch the dog look down at me sadly and make a high pitched noise like it's tapping out. It doesn't mean anything. It was mostly a list of things I don't understand. Why people believe the world will end in rapture or in nuclear fallout when epidemic is the obvious answer. Why scientists and doctors always dress in white. Shit like that. I printed it out and fed it to my turtle. All art should have a use.
Last night the moon looked like a ferryboat capsized by a storm. It was an art of a different kind. It was the art of standing in one place long enough to fantasize about the sky speaking to you. It doesn't happen often. No one has the patience. Mine was a fucking masterpiece. A cloud passed and the ferryboat had righted itself. All the drowning passengers were back in their seats. Another happy ending. Brilliant.
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