Just your run-of-the-mill self-involved bullshit post, just to get it out of the way.
(Written 10 / 16 / 06)
Morning, what a lovely time to write. The sunlight is mellow, the air is cool, and there’s a soft sea-breeze rustling the drying leaves of the trees. Had some thirsty dreams in which I drank a lot of water, woke up to find a rat in my toilet bowl. I suspect foul play.
Car didn’t start just now, so I’m giving the stupid thing time to gather its thoughts and try again, so I don’t miss bloody ethics class. There’s a slender gray cat that frequents our yard, who sat there staring at me as my car refused to start. She’s fine-boned and a lovely shade of gray, with darker stripes and emerald-olive eyes. Tricksy, too; I crouched down in the gravel and held out my hand, and she came forward, rubbed her head against it as felines are wont to do, and sashayed away two steps, lay down, rubbed her back on the gravel, righted herself, and looked right at me. When I moved, she moved, doing that same little flip and wiggle onto her back before eyeing me again, and each time I got up to move to her she moved just out of hand-reach. Playful little bugger.
My stomach’s upset from those blighted jalapeno pretzels. Never again—those things are a menace.
7:45 PM. Stopped work on the story. I did too much too fast, and it was too damned grandiose for its own good. Collapsed under its own weight right off the bat. I’m keeping the theme for other works, but until then, it’s shelved.
Shit, I’m almost nervous about writing in the modern, real world again. I may have forgotten how. Need to get up my reading again…get rid of my TV if necessary.
It seems that I’m destined for a bad luck—either because of poor decision-making on my part or circumstances apparently designed by a vengeful god to seriously fuck with me. (Side bar thought: I’m a terribly selfish person. Mike from Jacksonville U was right.) I’ve always wanted the girls I couldn’t have, either because of circumstance, or because they didn’t want me back. That isn’t to say that I haven’t had women; the wrong ones, though, have found a way into my life and have stayed, like a venereal disease picked up in Bangkok.
Delilah, forty years young, completely fucked in skull. Breanna, calling me drunk and telling me about her fucking fiancé, her house in Missouri and her recent DUI.
I’m getting dangerously close to despair over my stupidity and my own stubborn desires. I’ve passed by all the right girls for my own romantic ideal ones, and have been alone for my efforts. My own fault.
One woman called me a closet-romantic. I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, and maybe I should’ve.
