i have just finished the millay book. it was perfectly delightful and has me speaking to myself in vincent’s voice. i tend to do that a lot. the worst cases have been talking to myself like dave eggers and bridget jones. eventually it will wear off. it just annoys the piss out of me until it does.

so edna st. vincent millay dies alone, addicted and penniless. isn’t that one of the more depressing endings in american literature? sure she had a colorful and wonderful life before she met her end, but still.

it depresses the hell out of me that so many great artists and creative minds have succumbed to drugs.

i am much too sick and tired to be typing anything resembling coherence.