I have to write. Words have to leave my brain blob mass area thing or I'll never really be able to get through anything. This takes me back; it's been a while. Last time I was laying down, clicking loudly as I attempted to make words string together for coherent thoughts I was doing this to make money with ads. I was okay at it. I made a little bit. My father would call my name or come to the room, late hours much like this. He'd go on and on about something, and I'd shrug him off. We were in Puerto Rico. I had dreams. I was going to be a clever, sharp wit heavy punch frequent delivery writer, and he just wanted to vacation with his son. He'd say
"We're getting up early."
"I'm working, I can't do this."
For pennies. I made, after an entire year, less than $200. I got a single paycheck. I was a shitty son because he was gone for so long and he didn't understand boundaries; so I made things worse by being a shitty son.
I'm laying in bed, the heater is making sounds as heat escapes it's hot metal home and rolls across the room, resting itself faintly on my bare skin; I'm invited to sit in a blanket of comforting warmth as I'm wrapped in heat, entranced. Nothing could possibly make more sense than this moment. I've got AD when I write and who the he'll is going to read this? I don't know what I'm doing, I should probably just sleep. But then again. I've got nothing.
Sex might help.
