Che

Damn, its been a while since I wrote anything. I guess I haven't had much to say. It's hard to think let alone say with that damn fan vibrating. Every damn time it oscillates toward me it rattles, but its too fucking hot to turn it off. In retrospect it's not all that hot. Hmm, the folks next door are smoking a swisher. I can smell it through the window. I think its grape. Not all that sure, my nose is a bit stuffy so the olfactory senses are not working at full capacity. I can just pretend the smell is coming from that cigar Che is smoking as he looks out over my room form his vantage point on the wall. Its not the standard picture of him. When I first got the shirt, I never thought I'd hang it on the wall. But I like it too much to let it get worn out, and there was this big blank spot on my wall between the 'Don't drink and drive, smoke and fly' poster and the picture of my family. He fits well there. Its comforting to know I always have Che looking out over me, smoking a cigar. I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, but I never really am. It's no fun if you know where you'll end up when you start. The Motorcycle Diaries is a fanastic story. It gets that last statement. Che knew what he was doing when he set out not knowing what he would do. I'm not sure that sentence makes sense, but I'm sure you get what I'm saying. Can't write any more. The music is too good. I can't think with this bass line, it just invades my head and makes me feel good.