I garden. I trim the corners of my words. I prune my confidence and let my anxiety blossom like azaleas.
I stare over the fence. I wonder how you keep your grass so damn green. I hope you use toxic pesticides that shrivel your lungs. I look at my garden. All I see are aphids. I may hate you.
One of the worse - and best things to do in a writing slump is amp up on the reading. I've been knocking around some Bukowski, and the downside of that is, well, I've been knocking around some Bukowski.
Such fine fire-whiskey words. That bastard.
I didn't want to touch anything they ate around, off of, near. I wanted to give them all my money. I wanted to hate them more. I wondered when a wife becomes a mother, a husband a confused son.
But most of all, I want them to die without pain, without remembering who or what they were fighting. Goddammit, there should be a prize for attaining old age. And it shouldn't be the luxury of sitting in a restaurant smelling of overheated food, overheated bodies, overheated life.
Makes you want to smash into oblivion, go out on a comet. If I have to watch another old couple struggle into their jackets for-fucking-ever, I swear to God we'll both go down fighting.
I'll smash glasses and cry, "Hold on! I'll get you out of here! Show me your dog and your car!"
And we'll run. We'll outrun you and your trick pony too.