It’s wrapped up in my usual financial/homefront anxieties but it has a flavor of desperation running through it like pink through white taffy.
It’s hunger and being broke. It’s having exactly 3.76 in change in my bag and figuring out how to both get back and forth to work on the bus and get myself a cup of coffee. Doing poverty math in my head while trying not to destroy my keyboard because I type so fucking hard and I want to finish this fucking story so I can get to the next one.
Perhaps because of my not super healthy coping mechanisms I never look as crazy as I feel. I keep it tightly coiled in my guts and use it for fuel. Not that I always get shit done, sometimes i’m just a fear ridden hamster running on a wheel.
Write, burn, burn burn burn write write more.
I lift my head up and look at whatever I’ve been writing and have this moment of crashing paranoia/insecurity. Then I have this dialogue in my head.
Isn’t this too crazy?
This is stupid right?
The fuck was I even trying to say?
Gods…but people must think I’m out of my mind.
Well, of course they do because I am. You are. That’s okay.
Make some coffee.
Get it all out.
So that’s where I am right now. I have this need to write/do more. MORE. Always. Read. Write. WRite. WRITE FUCK SAKE.
Then I rinse and repeat.
Never empty though. I don’t know what I would do if I was.
Keeping within my personal parameters for dealing with the fuckery that my life likes to shit on the yellow brick road, I’m going to finish my madness/Styron essay. And I’m going to submit that bitch.
Then I give the cam girl story another little once over. Submit that bitch too.
Then I’m going to transcribe some shit from my notepad to continue working on. I’m going to dream about the chest piece tattoo (includes my favorite writing advice ever, “write like a mother fucker”) and pain at the end of this particular tunnel. What I mean is that if things turn out semi-well I’m rewarding myself with that chest piece tattoo.