The Glamorous Life of a Writer!

A hearty FUCK YOU VERY MUCH goin' out to Facebook today. Their logic holds that if you've added a lot of friends recently, your profile "may not work correctly." Which makes perfect sense. More friends, less ability to socially connect with them. That's some Annie Math right there.

While I have been chained to my computer, it's not been for the sake of the Facebook; rather, the BlogBook. This thing, here, consuming my life. I haven't posted anything in a while because I'm working on a ball-buster that wants to make of me Tolstoy or Victor Hugo - Les Misérables, regardless. Need to drive down to The Keys, rummage around Hemingway's place, see if I can't dig up that eraser Old Brevity was so fond of using. Blogs shouldn't be so taxing. But I'm finding this medium a damn good mouthpiece for my a'musings since they don't fit in anywhere else...because they don't really follow any of the standard literary norms.

Or anything else.

In any case, I need to get out more. As in, ever. At all. Once. Is the sky still up?

A sign you've been hermited away too long: I've forgotten how to put on make-up. Once upon a time, in a real rush, I could throw on a fancy face in 15 minutes. Not a "We're goin' to K-Mart so getcher ass ready!" face - a fancy face. Last week, an awkward attempt was made at mascara and I ended up poking myself in the eye, crying globby, Blackest Black tears for over 20 minutes. I was still picking charcoal goop out of the corners of my eyes three days later. You should've seen the effort at blusher - before washing it off, I stood and stared in the mirror for several minutes, mentally singing that 80's song, "It's'a rad-i-o-active!"

Mm. Pret-teee.

As in, "Mm. Pret-teee sure the next forgotten ability will be how to drive a car. Oh, well. That's why I have feet."

Honestly, I never knew how to drive in the first place. That ain't a funny - that's a for real. Mm. Pret-teee sure the count tallied up at...five accidents, all told? But that's Annie Math so you're better off asking one of the few survivors - who also happens to not be mathematically fucktarded.

Honestly, I'm tired. That's the stupidest thing I have ever said. No, that is. But "I'm tired" is one of the greatest understatements of my life. This waking up at 5 am, writing until 2 or 3 pm, drinking mad quantities of coffee throughout the hours - then the exhaustion, like's like some purple-black F5 tornado-tidal-wave of sleepless 3 am and that makes no sense - I know - but that's what it is - comes up over the back of the couch in the middle of the afternoon and just wallops me, bashes me over the head and it''s fucking ausgespielt, is what it is. I'm out. But I can't sleep. Can't nap, rest (I know - lay off the coffee, dumbass), but you'd think with that kind of fatigue, a wink or two wouldn't be too difficult to catch. You'd be wrong.

No matter how much I eat, The Muse works it off. Last time I stepped upon the scale, I didn't recognize the numbers so I stepped off, back on again, stared, then quickly redressed and beelined for the kitchen, scarfing down two heaping plates of spaghetti. Haven't been back on the scale since because I know, despite my best gorging efforts, nothing's changed. Unless it's for the worse.

Did Twain go through this shit? Ginny? Joyce? Bill Shakespeare? Poe— well, Poe don't count 'cause yes, he did go through this shit but that had everything to do with WAHOO crazy Amontillado nights so just never mind Poe.

Here's a shocker: I'm tired. And hungry! And, loathe as I am to admit it, in pain. Why? To quote a really bad, unglamorous writer:

"'Cause like they say, March roars in like a lion but goes out like a lamb, damned.

And then…then that lupine-lamb snarls in April."

And April cruelly crushes your arthritic bones into Eliot's handful of dust.

So thanks, April, for these showers of yours. A hearty FUCK YOU VERY MUCH goin' out to April on behalf of my arthritis. Same goes for you, Eliot, you soothsaying bastard.

Time to hunt, feed, choke down an aspirin chaser then put my head to pillow, count lambs and try my best not to catch the winks of any wolves.

Now I hunt for me some food;

I hope it does my body good.

If I should die before I wake...

Well, hell - that's one less nap I gotta' take.

1 comment:

  1. the best creative people I know need medication to sleep, coffee to stay alert, some sort of vice - like sport fucking or drugs as smoking doesn't count or only a little unless you chain smoke cigars or lucky strikes. Strike that - smoking any cigarette still doesn't count.