Pamela Meyer: How to spot a liar

The Last Road Run (slurpee)

I am so tired and uncomfortable and dammit if I don't have a fine bed to sleep in anymore. I wish to be free of all these attachments. Or do I?

The attachments I might want seem to be risks that hold me back. The attachments I don't want, I cannot get rid of. My ass is like a led weight. My ankles keep popping in and out. My back feels like it has a shark's tooth sticking out of it. I can't even take a freaking shower in this hell hole. Somebody get me the fuck out of here before I scream. New York was ice cold and I found that my friend was really my worst enemy, so I decided to leave. It wasn't that we couldn't relate, it's that we wouldn't relate. I couldn't get her out of her mess so she wasn't about to create any kind of an escape for me. We would both have to fend for ourselves and that's fine, after all. We were both injured beyond belief, but eventually would become stronger. Maybe. At least I was going to try. I don't know whatever the hell she was going to do. At that point I didn't care much. But, now I had to back track. Back to Chicago, which I was not looking so forward to. Occupy was where I wanted to be anyway.

Without Occupy there would be no way to balance the anger and fatigue.