The following is a work of fiction.

Not Nick Nolte's Diary, Malibu, California
April 29, 2008


I ran into Burt Ripshaw at the nursery. He was fully bearded so I hardly recognized him. He told me it's the whiskey that makes the whiskers grow. His words nearly parted my hair. Anyway, it appears I hadn't spoken with him in quite some time. It wasn't until after the conversation that I realized why. His Reiki healer is a complete asshole. The guy is one of those cats who puts you on the back peddle in order to control his fragile universe. Before you can say anything he'll "remind" you that you're not suppose to drink liquids out of plastic bottles that are grade 2 or higher or he'll wonder why you're still using tungsten. It gets to be too much. But Burt has been collateral damage too long. So I challenged him to a game of squash next week. They say ennui shuffles the deck but its the forgotten proclivities that deal the cards. And so here we are Diary.

[signed] Nick

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