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keys so I could take a long weekend to be alone. I told her that
I needed some space to figure out where I am, who I am, to sort
out my life. She said she understood, but I know she didn’t
believe me. Even though she sounded sympathetic when we met and
generously gave me the keys to her parent’s place, I just
heard her say on my reality machine, supposedly speaking to her
new boyfriend, that she’s sure I’m making all this
up, and that I’m probably bringing some girl to her parent’s
place. Her boyfriend quickly asked her “That’s crazy,
you don’t mind?” She said she didn’t. “That’s
just the way Gray is,” she said. “That’s why
I’m glad we’re friends and not lovers.”
The number “15” was blinking in digital red on my
machine when I got home earlier this evening. I spent an hour,
playing and replaying, recording the reality voices in my notebook
(see attached transcripts from May 28th, 2000). Seven messages
had insightful truths for me to feast on. One from my dealer
Bam, saying he just received a good shipment, but he really wondered
where I have been and if I split town without paying my outstanding
balance. One from Jimmy Sweany, who said he just moved to New
York and got my number through our parents. He really wanted
to figure out how to get laid in this town. One was from this
horny bitch Kaz. At least she told a fellow bartender at work
in the 90-second interval that I was a good lover. My mind hasn’t
stopped racing since. I have reached a crucial decision about
myself in light of these messages. Maybe this decision is also
the result of my long solemn weekend in the deserted pre-season
beaches of the Hamptons. I have to write it down right now. That’s
the only way my decision will mean anything. Only written things
contain value. I now know for certain that most spoken words
are pure bullshit.
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