My dog sits without a leash on the cool porch and we watch cars go by. He hates buses. I wonder why sometimes. I think a bus killed his dad. Me, I sit here with a laptop and an iced tea and wonder what the weekend will hold for me. I hope it holds absolutely nothing. A huge chunk of a lack of decision making. I have made enough decisions this week to choke a normal man. I have given up on people. I have almost lost the place that I live in and still could. I realized that I made a mistake professionally that I am going to have to do my best to kiss ass, sell out and suck dick to survive so that I can fulfill my promise of being an absolute bum and leaving this shithole town and everyone in it behind in 2 years. So really, when you think about part b and part c, I don't know why I was so upset about the house, in retrospect. I mean, if your dream is to be Dr. David Bruce Banner without the turning green and killing people part, and only the part where you, you know, wander the Americas and have adventures and change people's lives, you know, that part, having a house seems to be pretty much a hold-you-back from this dream. But you know, I'm a fucking contradiction. So I sit in meetings and dream about keeping my little $85,000 house and at night, I throw up and go to bed as soon as I get home and try and do enough stuff so that my stomach is a little bit better and I try and make art and I try and stick to my plan, because I swear to fucking God, I will never be caught unawares without a plan of my own ever again. And that brings us all to now, dear reader. The slowly growing dusk of a Friday night, completely sure of my aloneness, save for a screaming cat who is begging to be outside and a dog sleeping on the porch and this iced tea that I paid to fucking much for and the true knowledge that the only person you can trust is the one inside your head (and even that dude, they're fucking crazy, too, keep an eye on them). It's a precarious place to be. Both happy to be free for a bit, sad that freedom doesn't last forever and certain that somewhere, somehow, the life that you always wanted could happen at any minute, but nah, you're too fucking cynical for that. They say all writers are liars. I say all writers are fucking drunks. I can prove that hypothesis if you'd like to buy me a drink.

Photo - S
Words - S