Writer X

My life seems very long, right up until I read something I had written. I read over some musings or ideas or complaints or triumphs of the human spirits imagined or real, and it could have been a week ago, a month at the most I scribed it. Until I look at the date and see years have passed. Passed along with relationships jobs apartments feuds bets and cares. Yet somehow my writing remains at most a month away. I look back and see how little I’ve written, how little of myself I’ve penned for later me or god forbid anyone but you to see. My memory can barely hold my bitch sister’s name and her slew of kids. Wait, one kid, Michael. He’s just so sweepingly flamboyant it seems like there’re eight of him when I’m drunk. And I’m usually drunk. Not that that’s a bad thing (the flamboyancy) he just has a certain ardent fluidity that looks like a time delay shot on a camera when he moves. His mom has finally admitted that he’s gay, but she calls it “cute” or “a little phase”. Same way she described by alcohol “problem” when I had my first full week blacked out. So we can pretty much discount that theory. No, he’ll be fine. Gay indeed! Maybe next time I’ll start drinking AFTER I start writing one of these. It’s just too damn depressing, babbling ink through a rusty typewriter for a fucking check. But, it’ll be a good goal. Almost forgot what it was like to have one of those. Because drinking isn’t a goal, it a tactic.  Drunk just helps me achieve my goal of not thinking about my shitty life for a bit. God damn it I’m a depressing fuck. Maybe I’ll do some community service. Though I seem to remember me being someone’s community service, so maybe I’ll just try to stop being such a whiney shit. The cockroaches look happy, why shouldn’t I be as happy as them? Because they live rent free! Why is my typewriter rusty?