wilted and faded somewhere in Hollywood

nights like this, Punk reminding me about "You Had Time" and the weather that sort of vague summery autumn, I miss LA so bad it hurts.

it really, really hurts. I grew up in New York, and for a while there, I was a New Yorker living in LA, and that was something, but now I'm just a New Yorker living in New York, and george said "you poor half a girl" and that's about the size of it.

Because I didn't know, until I got here and it was just New York, just like it's always been, that I had it right, even broke, for three years, and I just didn't know.

so what's a year? if that's what it takes to get me rich and famous so I can move home? what's a year when I can't listen to that Shawn Mullins song about the bar on Fairfax, because it was my bar on Fairfax? and what's a year when I can't hear Beth Hart singing She hangs around the boulevard, she's a local girl with local scars because in that one she left LA and came back in three minutes, after the second chorus. And next to three minutes, what's a year?

a whole hell of a lot.

and I feel so broke up, I wanna go home.