Month: October 2017

Deep … Cleansing… Breaths…

… STUPIDMOTHERFUCKINGSONOFABITCH!

Really should have taken her a little more seriously. Didn’t. And she made me quit. Ohhh, that voice is a forceful one let me tell you… But now I have all of this free time for … stuff. I mean bright side, NaNoWriMo is next month. Maybe I’ll finish the Doc’s Tale’s by then. Maybe. Hopefully. Fingers crossed that the drunkard in my skull can coax the drunkard in the pages to keep talking. If not, maybe they can share a drink and discuss the existential crises that is existing. Sounds like a conversation based in the wild throws of weed, but -tsk tsk- it’s the bottle what’s bringin’ about these thoughts and discussions between myself and my imaginary friends.

Brilliant side to insanity, you always have some form of material to coincide with your prenatal psychosis. Downside is the self-doubt and crippling thoughts of inadequacy. But once you get through that, you’re pretty much a god. Then, when the thoughts creep back in and you fold to them, eventually scouring Indeed to find the “right job” that you can hack while you entertain your imaginary beasties, the rocks start plunging their old school fists into your guts and you close the computer like, “eh… fuck it” because you remember that crazed lunatic in your skull, tapping her bat against the walls and giving you the stink eye – considering she only has the one eye to give it to you with. Don’t ask about the other one, she’ll show you how she  got it t do its disappearing act. In fact – she’s giving me the glare now, while the new on in the Zoot Suit plays some daunting tune on the random piano in my skull, puffing on a stogie and what she calls a “bread knife” sitting on the top of the baby grand next to her brass knuckles…

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Thank You Mr. Hardy – Legend, Great Flick. Image also from Somewhere on Tumblr

Shit, I’m about to get my ass kicked…

P.S: Prose writing. Ain’t it great? Grammatical Rules of Grammarness be damned! Well. I mean… Like… To an extent.

Oh Shit…

So, you know that moment when you sit at your desk, couch, Polish sausage making station and you decide – “Hey, I think it’s time.” And you write. And write. Get the gall to tell your job to leave you alone and walk out the door. Those sausages smell good, be they made of meat, tofu, children’s tears… And you’re feeling pretty damn decent about your life choices to pursue your dreams. Your career goals. Your “you”. After all, you can’t fully explore the glory that is sausage making and writing while your head is full of someone else’s problems and your ears bleed from their inability to use a cellular device… or a key pad. When the tiny voice on the other side says “press ‘1’” you don’t have to keep pressing it six, seven, eight, a hundred times. Just once.

You’re feeling pretty good about it. Even so good as to look in  your inbox  to see what lovely modicum of hope has made its way to your tiny glowing screen… Rejection. But that’s okay, stiff upper lip, that wasn’t what you wanted anyway. You keep plugging along, still feeling good about your abilities, some faith still lodged in your cortex that everything will work out for the better. You’re good at what you do, right?

Several hours go by, you’ve pounded your fingers into calloused anvils, and you’re more tired now than the time your crazed PE teacher made you run through the entirety Presidential Fitness Test in the third grade. Another blip on the screen. A little dingle and a dangle. The notorious email envelop with its bouncing number jumps around, trying its hardest to frantically notify you that someone wants to communicate with you. “Rejection”

It’s been three weeks and an inbox full of “Sorry but you suck.” You haven’t written anything in days. Your finger tips are soft like a new born calf’s hide, and you have all but forgotten what a comma does in sentence. Even if you were writing you’d barely know what it’s supposed to do, but at least you’d make it look fancy.

You pray to whatever god you believe in – be it the enraged psycho in the “Good Book” or the relaxed elephant carrying a hatchet and giving you a doped out nod. “At this point,” you think aloud, “Who gives a fuck? Might as well go all out on the crazy train.” You don’t have much else to lose. Your self worth has jumped ship. You remember why you went back to the craze of a shit-stained 9-5. And yet, for some unforeseen reason, you are refusing to settle back into the heavenly crap shoot that is the modernized, yet so outdated, workforce. Bills be damned.

Rejection. Rejection. Rejection. And so on and so forth. Until…