Monday, December 13, 2010

Every once in a while...

I try to write to fiction but it always ends up being everything I want to say or am too afraid to say or too afraid of people reading.  And as I suck down another Champagne of Beer and worry my pipe and keep turning up the volume on Dylan my fingers falter, nails two weeks uncut I don't and can't type the way I normally do.

I'm worried that the fiction, the caricature, the lyrics of Mama, You Been on My Mind, the dregs of my last six beers, the failed flirtations with Millienials, and dredging monetary karmic debt...

And I'm amazed it's only 9PM CST.

My nails are too long and I need a haircut though I brushed my hair tonight and I had to smile at the way I looked.  I'm not abhorrent to look at but I couldn't look myself in the eye.

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