Archive for August, 2011
Bad shape
So, we twisted my arm at a really unfortunate angle on Thursday, and it hurts. A lot. It’s kind of the last thing I need right now, last night was long, and bad. لعبة روليت مجانيه I’m exhausted.
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Can’t not write
So, this doesn’t work, I can’t not write. كيف تربح مراهنات كرة القدم No matter how dead I feel inside, no matter how much I want to be holding someone tonight, every night, I have to keep writing.
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Broken and gone
I’m broken and gone and I don’t think I’m coming back. Thank you for reading, I tried to make this place something good. I’m sorry I failed.
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Not tonight
My head is too muddled tonight, I can’t write. Fuck, so many things I can’t say.
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Nothing
I really don’t have anything worth writing, again. I don’t know what I’m doing, just breathing, I guess.
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On the one hand, and on the other…
On the one hand, I want to be writing great things, entertaining things, at least. The guy at the bar the other night, the guy with really sweaty hands who grabbed my face because he wanted to know if “that thing is real.” The way Jenna, my sister-in-law, smacked his arm away Kung Fu style. I want to write things.
On the other hand, I feel empty inside, and entertaining feels pointless.
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Last night
So, last night, I went to this bar with my brother, sister-in-law, some of their friends. It was a really lame bar, anyplace that serves even their liquor in plastic cups just isn’t anywhere good. Beer in plastic, sure, that’s okay. Liquor in plastic, that’s completely classless. Liquor belongs in glass, no discussion.
Anyways, I still usually love a bar, I love writing about bars. Something interesting always happens. I kept trying to get in my writer space, where I’m taking in everything, feeding everything, remembering everything. I usually sit, and watch, and write things in my head. Even if I just feel lonely, lost, I’ll write that, wanting my drink to make me feel something other than empty, and how it almost never does. Even when I feel dead inside, I usually get some kind of peace out of using my craft to paint that picture with words, personal narrative, flash fiction, whatever. Last night, I just couldn’t get to that place of detached recording, where words just fit in my head. I was too anxious, nervous, too disconnected. I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to be somewhere else, with someone else. The weight of that, I don’t have the words to describe, I can’t.
