Saturday early morning around 3:38 a.m. and the world is silent aside from the radio and the random thoughts in my head. It’s so different. This time of night 3 years ago I’d be sitting in Golden West chuggin the joe, standing in the night chillwind dragging on a smoke, or writing napkin notes for the next band practice. Instead I sit here listening to someone else’s music and feeling sorry for myself. Drinking my bottled cappuccino and staring at the wisps of smoke in the air of my Del Monte room. Paper-thin walls were all that separated me from the guys in the next room. I could hear them but not understand. Were they talking about me, I wondered. Probably. I could feel the tears wooshing up and my stomach sank. I took another swig and stubbed out the cigarette. Isolation. A single note in the dead air. That’s what I felt like. I wondered how we were going to get past this and what I was going to do with my life if we didn’t. I had to do something so I turned on my old Smith Corona and started writing Randy a letter. I poured myself and my soul into it. I left nothing out. I figured this would be my best bet at getting him to listen to me and it would also be his last chance. If he couldn’t respect me and how I felt… then screw him.
*rescued journal entry from an old computer file