"when the police come to get me, i'm listening to dance music."

[i_saved_latin29]

This is not a real entry. This is so I pop up on your friends' page and you look and you say "John Shortino still exists." This is a statement of intention, I will not disappear. This is a question posed: what makes home what it is? Is it diner food and a cold bed and just vastness and whiteness and white trash in the diner in such volume that you leave? Is it a place where you walk in and suddenly remember everything, another place to tear down pictures and watch old movies? Also, how do I reply to these emails that are fermenting in my inbox? I stutter.

Things that will follow: essays. Totally emotionally neutral essays about vonnegut and evelyn waugh and movies and songs. this is my soapbox now, and I will impress my views onto you.

Love,

John.