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Monthly Archives: April 2011

WB

Well now, I should be just ashamed of myself. I’ve gone and deserted my online obligations as an aspiring writer. The online universe is somehow missing me I feel, (yeah right), so now I must come back. Hopefully in the time I’ve been gone the internet community didn’t miss me too much. Okay, enough false bravado, onwards to better things.

I feel delightful right now. Really. I feel like life could in fact get a whole shit ton better, but that’s okay. I could be richer, so that my electric bill wouldn’t fall behind another fucking time this year. I could be prettier, so I wouldn’t feel so awkward and silly when I try on clothes or look at magazines. I could be more famous, so that so many people know who I am that I don’t even have to try to have quality friendships because I’m so famous it wouldn’t even matter. But you know, I’ve begrudgingly¬†accepted that those things are not for me. They probably never will be. Because I’m a fucking writer. Because somehow, my brain processes me spending too much time smoking pot and thinking of story development as a better source of life income then me actually doing a lot of work towards something. Yet, somehow it feels¬†like a lot of work anyways. I find myself looking around at my apartment and wondering how I can get the fine things other people enjoy so casually. But then I remember why I don’t try to get them. Because at heart, I know I am greedy, and one thing will never stop at one thing. So, I commit myself to the one thing I can always get more of, it feeds me, satisfies the never ending craving for more things that are “mine”. I commit myself to the written word, and it makes me feel better. Not perfect, but better. And sometimes I have so many words in my life that I drown in them, and it leaves me drifting to the bottom of everything I know, and for a moment, I’m just in the salty knowledge of everything in my world, and I feel good. I feel too good to ever drag myself back out. So I just sink, further and further into my words and my books, and my small quiet life of loud thoughts. I sit in my too small room in my too small apartment and I can’t help but think, “This is the shit that killed Hemingway.”

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Posted by on April 20, 2011 in Musings