What I said in my letter to Matt...is trumped by the sentiment in my text to Ian: "Today Pittsburgh smells like pee and broken stuff."
I've been walking between garbage bars, intermittenly getting very fucking lost. Now so fucked up from a five mile walk that my legs wobble. Feeling like a bruised banana. I ate a cupcake I found in a smashed up box at a bus stop.
I might be dying.
What I said to Matt was that this trip might mark my unmaking. I start out as a hip but poor tourist--buying a beer here, a beer there--but wind up fucking destitute, wrapped in a nest of quilts, leaves knotted in my hair, loitering at the library indefinitely.
My mind is getting weird. I'm responding with interest to catcalls. A creepy hook-up can't be far around the corner.
I'm not sure if I believe in vibes, but I bet if I'm giving any off...that they're bad.
This depressive spike might be a chemical pendulum swing from yesterday's pot brownie. Wherein I merely lay crumpled on a stranger's couch at 3 am, mind racing, so horny I wanted to throw up.
If you believe in ghosts, pray for me.
If you're more practical, send mail and/or money:
1200 Boyle Street
Pittsburgh PA 15212.