Sitting in the cafe editing furiously on hobosexual to meet with the August 1st deadline. The air is muggy and damp. Here in this desert city it is the so called monsoon season - where as it rains for five minutes leaving the air so ungodly humid it feels like your head had been stuck in a napalmed watermelon.
Anyway, as I was saying, I'm sitting among the hipsters and the chatty school kids when that hustler Kyle comes up out of the gutter. We had a falling out namely because I just couldn't tolerate his shit. I mean, he's not my type of character, his only saving grace is his outrageously well hung wang. So, he stops and plops into my booth and is already lit from a fifth of vodka. He pours the rest into his ice coffee and goes into a three hour rant on the domestic life concerning himself and his estranged father. What am I a fucking therapist all of a sudden? So, I sit and I listen as warm rain sizzles out on the dark midnight streets of Tucson.
He shuts his yap long enough to listen to my decision of hightailing it out of Tucson and maybe settle into the shadowy alleys of Tijuana. I really miss that life. I miss it a lot.
The insipid people of Tucson have really gotten me down. Americans on the whole really. So, I think I will finish tieing up some loose ends here and move on. I mean, why not? What do I have to lose? Though Kyle slurs that I really should go to Puerto Rico...