The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

Perhaps I have been silenced by irony and rainfall. Or maybe it’s just been the blues. But I sit in front of my computer, wishing it was an old typewriter, wishing I was in Big Sur writing, painting (I could never paint!), cooking, making love to someone I haven’t met yet, and nothing comes to me but blanks.

Inspiration is eluding me and that’s dreadful. My mother gave me an Elvis Christmas CD and it’s really all I’ve been playing and that’s dreadful too. It gets so cold around here that all I can do is lie on my couch with blankets and compulsively convulse in front of the space heater. Last week I could see my breath unraveling in the darkness of my bedroom. What can be done about this? We don’t live in Colorado or Canada for chrissakes. I for one choose to spend so much money living here because of the mild climate. I wish I could call someone and complain but I never make it past the third ring.

To top it all off, my pills, my glorious bloody pills are about to run out. I can’t really afford to get a refill so it looks like I am going to have to borrow some vicodin from Vincent in order to get through tomorrow. I tried to get out of the family stuff but I got so much shit for my abandoning everyone on Thanksgiving that I think I must just grin and bear it. Drew is out of town anyway.

Speaking of, it’s been almost a month to the day since our big date to make up for his birthday. When he picked me up it was apparent we were going to a hockey game, given his Sharks jersey. He’s not such a big sports guy, but it was cute to see him all dolled up for such. I had overdressed, as per usual for my dates with him, but he didn’t seem to care, as he never does. I was lacing up my shoes on his bed, sharing a cold PBR tall can when he threw his driver’s license at me. It took me a few moments, upon careful scrutiny, to discover that his birthday hadn’t been the Monday he mentioned. It was that day, that oddly warm November Sunday evening, the 25th.

It turns out he hadn’t spent his birthday alone or with anyone else, no meaningless full-breasted females, no drunken “buddies.” I have always disliked this term for male friendships but it gets thrown around mercilessly so I use quotes to show my disregard.

Anyways, he wanted to be with me. He wanted to have a fun evening with me, someone who had often felt small in his company, unimportant, always hoping for the converse. I laughed the kind of laugh that requires tears to validate, the kind that spreads into an exclamation. I said “you bastard,” leaping upon him, kissing his neck, his ears, his chin. We laughed together, until the kisses bloomed into something more intense and our clothes became scattered around the room as if they exploded from us.

We were late for the game. They lost anyways.


1 Response to “The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

  1. December 27, 2007 at 3:52 pm

    Eloquence is not necessary. Meaning is unimportant. The words are what matter. Simply putting them down. Writing for writing’s sake. It can be an ugly truth, or a pretty lie.

    There is always that bit of sadness that seeps through to the surface, darlin. I hope that gets remedied. Always know you have at least one fan.

    I can only hope one day to describe clothes coming off as an explosion. I miss that kind of passion. I had it once, oddly enough with a woman in CA. Perhaps it’s the climate that makes it so. Personally, there’s nothing better than tossing her to the bed with an aptly hiked skirt. She seemed to like it anyways.

    That has no relevance whatsoever.

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