I’ve been eating too much for too long. Lazy, after-Christmas me. Stubbly-faced me who wears unattended, unwashed college hoodies and eats hard-baked fish sticks. I’ve eaten too much in the last week, and I’m not understanding why the force of the new hasn’t pushed out the old. With each fart comes hope. I found missile-shaped transparents somethings to stick in a place to bring about change.
I suppose I’m talking about my writing as well. Since October I’ve taken in too much. Nothing’s come out. I need it out. Hope comes when I open the lid of this old Macbook. It’s in the tips of my fingers, every word in my head that should be on a new document. I used to be a writer, and I want to be one again. I have the notes in my phone to prove it. What will emancipate these nuisances?
I’ll write soon, I hope, even if I’m as insecure about those words as I am about wiping my ass with my left hand.