The book is due in a couple of days, and I have turned very dark.
I am supposed to be spending these days with my wife and kids. But instead, once again, I find myself here, sitting in a coffee shop, an enormous stack of papers taunting me like a junior high bully. I’ve been working on this fucking thing for two years, and it’s startiing to really get to me. I’ve been having severe headaches the past few days, and Advil ain’t doing shit. I’ve been waking up tired, napping tired, going to bed tired. Tired, tired, tired, tired.
Also frustrated. Of many things. Surface bullshit. Did you see her shirt? Are you sure you want to wear that? That guy’s gotten fat. The conversations that take up our time between womb and tomb. It’s so inane, and yet what’s the alernative? Can we really talk about death and politics forever? Probably not.
I know I’m making no sense. I can’t explain what I’m going through right now, except I’m extremely down and dark and want to scream very LOUDLY. FUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKK!
Oddly, I feel a little better.
I’m in a diner called Howley’s. It’s open until 2, and I’ll be here when it closes. The table I’m sitting at wobbles, but I need to be here because of the outlet. It’s dark inside, and smells like burger. The douche sitting next to me is wearing one of those sweaters that screams, “I’m trying to impress you!” I’m not impressed. I’m wearing a Target T-shirt ($10) and Old Navy sweats ($15—on sale for $10). I’ve got flipflips on, sans socks. On one fingernail I have neon pink hooker nailpolish. I got it for free at Sephora with my daughter a while back. Not sure why I put it on.
OK, I’m ready to dive in … and sink (or swim)
PS: The above photo was brought to my attention today. It’s what a guy looks like when he totally sells out (this refers to either man).