One More for Good Measure

Today I saw a dog. I don't remember the last time I went a day without seeing a dog. If I was a good writer, I would make some sort of point out of that. Right now, I am not trying to be a good writer, I am trying to fill blog requirements. I am trying to survive. How many more days until I remember how to write. I'm hoping for one. I'm betting on fifteen. I heard that Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul pays $300 for every story they accept. I might look into that. The problem with trying to be a writer is that there isn't very much money behind it. Even if you take the moguls like Stephen King or David Sedaris, I imagine the median income for "professional" writers is well below the poverty line. Oh well. I don't especially care about money, because people keep giving it to me. The government gives me money so I can go to school. My parents give me money so I can sleep in a bed. My job gives me money so I can buy milk. Middle class really doesn't appeal to me. I don't want to live in a subdivision. I want to live on the wrong side of the tracks or in a multi million dollar estate on top of Mount Everest. I wonder which is more likely... With writing like this though, I imagine its only a matter of time before the money starts rolling in. One day I will have to be self sufficient. That is going to suck so much. Right now I kind of ignore my bills and creditors, knowing that one day it will bite me in the ass. But right now, I don't have to worry about it because I am young and stupid. Being young and stupid is awesome. The only problem is that right now and I imagine for the next few weeks I'm going to be young, stupid and totally miserable. I don't like being miserable because I don't know how to cure it. I know how to numb it. Right now my only numbing options are video games. Which is ok, I guess. I really like some video games, a trend I thought I escaped years ago. I am so hungry. In half an hour I get to go to La Salsa for the lit mag Persona's Dinner. That'll be dope. I think I will get something involving beef and cheese....probably a tortilla, too. Definitely salsa, of course. And sour cream. Sentence fragments woot.

I am behind in blog entries

I really want to learn to play the violin. I'm afraid I've past the point to teach my brain to think in musical terms, though. Listen to Flogging Molly's Float, and you'll know why I want to learn the violin. Not some crappy, ancient classical bullshit but a really dirty gypsy riff. I would love that. Or bluegrass fiddling. Mmmmmm no instrument talks to my heart like a violin. I have a friend who has 2 violins and is very good and used to teach lessons. She will not let me hear her play or teach me how to play. It is quite obnoxious.

I like my doggy. I need to kennel train her. She will come to North Carolina with me over Christmas break, and she will spend 10 hoursish in her crate. She came to Tucson in her crate, and now she is terrified of the thing. I started throwing bits of turkey in there so she has to run in and grab it. Hopefully if I keep it up for a few days I can throw in a bone, close the gate and let her gnaw on it for a little bit. It should be doable. My dog is my best friend. She has all the qualities of a fantastic friend. She is loyal, playful, sympathetic and licks my face. It is depressing though, that she is not only my best friend, but my only friend in Tucson. Solitude is getting to me. I cannot hang out with anyone but my roommate, and the two of us going to hang out always seems a bit silly since we live together and are always hanging out.

This weekend I called the police on my own house. A girl was passed out with her face in the dirt and somehow people were fighting the idea of taking her to the hospital. So I called an ambulance. All the minors disappeared like illegals responding to policia!  The girl made it to the hospital. She had alcohol poisoning. I keep making my roommates friends hate me. Boo hoo.

Lets Try Again

I want to live and I want to write. I want to live like I write. Honest. Witty. Profound. Entertaining. 

I need to start over. Somewhere I went astray and now "normal" hurts. My head aches. My ribs hurt. My heart pounds. I need so much attention but I don't want to be around anybody. The people I love the most are the people I want to hear from the least. 

My pants were stained with blood and mucus. I don't remember where that bruise on my hip came from. My body started leaking blood and bile. And I miss that. I am in a computer lab. I see a kid playing WOW. I see a kid 10 tabling on Poker Stars. That's hardcore. I struggled with 9 and was never profitable at more than 4. 

I demand love from others I am not willing to give myself. I am much better at taking care of others than myself. I feel boring. I feel obnoxious. I feel fatigued, and I feel like I'm drowning. They say it will get better. I believe them. Right now, it sucks. Right now, it hurts. 

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I feel like I'm going to spew

Where is my creativity?

My brain is made a little bit out of mud right now. Trying to concentrate on anything is exhausting. I'm going to spit out some random thoughts.

The woman who got her face ripped off by a chimp looks really bad. Doctors had to remove both of her eyes. That's pretty awful.

The thought of an overly agressive drunk woman at a bar saying to a confused gentleman, "I'm gonna fuck your dick off."

A hack saw splitting a live head in two. How far would the blade get before the screaming stopped?

Goddamnit. I was ok for 15 minutes. Why can't I wake up?

Los Muertos

It is a typical hospital room. The lights are dim because the occupants are going through detox, and bright lights are irritating. Two cells separated by cloth curtains make space for two occupants. The bed closer to the door is occupied. With no fan fare or introduction, the cloth barrier surrounding the room is pulled back and a Vanna White joke is made by one of the orderlies wheeling in the second occupant. He is hispanic, shirtless, and almost unconscious. He moans while they adjust him into his slot of stay. The nurses try to figure out who speaks Spanish. The one who made the Vanna White joke started experimenting with different ways to say "not much" in Spanish. They leave and the man continues to moan.

A different nurse goes up to the man and tries to get his attention and ask him how he is feeling. After several failed attempts he says he is cold. She retrieves heated blankets and spreads them out over his body. His skin is jaundiced. One family member walks through the room, past the first occupant and into the tiny space around his bed. Shortly another comes. Shortly, the entire half of the room is packed shoulder to shoulder with concerned family or friends. The man moans. In Spanish they express their concern. While the family fears, a doctor and a nurse hold a loud conversation in the hallway. The doctor is angry. He says, "You know I didn't ask for this case." The family has started an intense, almost lyrical prayer.  The doctor enters the room in a huff, passes the first partition and squeezes into the unfortunately sterotypical bundle of Mexicans. In a loud, anglo, annoyed voice he tells the family that he can cure the infection but he can't cure the cancer, and frankly it would be a waste of their time. There is a translator, and therefore a delay in the response. The news  is relayed before it hits like a bullet. The room is as quiet as it has been since the Vanna White joke. A few more exchanges are made through the translator and they take the conversation outside. Two women remain and the women sob on top of the man. They cannot stand the news. A woman from hospice comes in and helps wheel out the moaning man.