Bleached jeans and booty shorts with a sno cone.

People don’t keep journals for themselves. They keep them for other people, like a secret they don’t want to tell but they want everyone to know. The only safe place for your thoughts is in your memory, which people can’t take and read when you’re not looking—at least not yet. I’m starting to think that if the Internet is the CB radio of the nineties, then the home computer is the trailer part of the soul, a dangerous tool in the hands of idiots. Eventually self-imposed fascism will destroy man as he convinces himself he doesn’t have to think anymore.