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And I watched "Stars and Stripes" because Jo reminded me about the scrabble, and I read about Perth because Jo told me, and I miss Perth, and I miss Jo, and I miss 1988, and I miss LA.

I never have any regrets, I said once to Jeff, before Jason started hating me. I never have any regrets, that's how I know I can get a tattoo.

I never have any regrets, I said to Jeff later, after Jason stopped speaking to me, after my first tattoo. Never any regrets except Jason. Except that Jason's not speaking to me.

I never have any regrets, I said to the dean of students, and he promised me an honorary degree, just like Bill Cosby. We know you'll be famous someday, he said. It's okay you leaving. It's okay, I said. No regrets.

I never have any regrets, I said to SJJ when we moved to LA, when we couldn't find a house, when I drove to interviews with all my clothes and my TV and my printer in my car.

Five tattoos later, on the phone with my parents, broke in LA, looking for money. Why'd you leave us so soon, my dad asks. Why'd you run off to boarding school, to college, to LA. Why do you keep making these mistakes?

Not mistakes, I said. I'm glad to be here. I never have any regrets. I don't know how to have regrets. I just move from place to place, move on.

We'll send money, they said, and I was mad.

You regret it, don't you, they said, when I came back to visit. You regret going to boarding school, leaving us, dropping out of college, moving to LA, your five tattoos. You regret it, don't you.

No. Yes, I said. I regret it. I need money. I'll come home. I miss New York, I said (and that was true). I miss you, I said (and I thought that was too). Take care of me. I want to be taken care of.

I live in a house that's got centipedes in the walls, pigeons in the windows. There's a streetlight that cuts in just above the red blinds, just above the air conditioner, like a sunset above the red blinds and I can never, ever sleep.

I'm not sleeping now.

Can I call you, mom says over IM. Right now. Okay, I say. Let me get offline.

I'm going to tell her how much I miss LA, and she's going to say too bad. You're wrong. You don't know. You're broke. You left us too early. We're the only ones who love you. Fuck your friends. Fuck your dreams. Fuck Hollywood and its siren call, fuck the environment of entertainment and the Fairfax nightclubs where Tom Waits once hissed over a blue piano. Fuck the latin bars on Pico and the 7-Eleven parkinglot whores. Fuck the Hollywood Bowl and Griffith Park, fuck the cruising low-riders on Sunset outside the Viper Room. Fuck Topanga Canyon, Malibu, fuck Venice Boardwalk. Fuck the seedy asphalt of Hollywood, two blocks up from the wax museum with the drugdealer shootouts and the whimpering starlets. Fuck the screenplays and the dizzying lights and the half-assed glamour. Fuck SKL. Fuck you. She'll say. You don't know any better, my dad will say, later. You left us too early.

No, I'll say. I didn't leave you too early. I just didn't stay away long enough.