So, it is a little shy of a quarter of four in the afternoon.

Why is that number important? It isn’t, I am bored and I wanted to write something so I thought if I told you what time it was that would make you form a small bond with the written piece as you continued along reading it, drawing you deeper into the enchanting world that is the written word and you would later shower me with praise knowing the entirety of my being is pretty much inflated by the praise of others and I have absolutely no sense of self-love or self-worth whatsoever. Either way, I have done it and there really isn’t anything either one of us can really do about it, so let us pretend it never happened and go on with our day, shall we?

I am listening to more Green Day in a frantic rush for inspiration because Hitchin’ A Ride, the live version from Bullet In A Bible, gave me this huge rush of emotional and creative energy the last time I listened to it that I thought I would go the vampire route and return to the same source and suck all the life and vitality from it, leaving it a worthless husk of a thing that I will eventually despise and feel shame towards because of what I am doing this very moment. However, stopping now is not an option because even as I write how disappointed in myself I am, I am actually composing new thoughts in my head to continue this piece and I will inevitably return to it over and over again, leading to my son’s face looking like he has seen the dead rise and walk because I have listened to the four minute and four second song for at least the fiftieth time in as many hours and he needs to listen to something else to believe that there are good things left in the world, but no, even as he lays down to sleep in the bowels of the early morning tomorrow I will be sitting ramrod straight in my bed, inhaling incense like old opium fumes that Coleridge used to and fueling up for the fight for creativity tomorrow. Alas, I shall never write of my Xanadu I am afraid, I talk about it sometimes though. If any of you doubt this, if you have the misfortune of meeting my brother or sister in your stay on this mortal plane, ask them about Red Rubber Ball by The Cyrkle.

Periodically I stop and cause the process of tribonucleation to occur as I quickly separate the joints of my fingers and air bubbles occur in the vacuums in both hands simultaneously because I think that is the reason my arms and wrists are hurting instead of the obvious Carpal Tunnel Syndrome I have in both arms for doing this exact writing with my hands at specific angles thing for the last twenty-five years of my life each and every day. I try to believe that just one more shake of the hand, or ignoring that my hands have been numb for the better part of three hours is just the pain the artist has to go through to get to the perfect product. I mean, what is art without a long-term injury and years of worry over the surgery that not only needs to happen but probably needed to happen while you were still in High School? However, you were too busy doing mountains of blow to even consider looking into anything as stupid and pathetic as your own well-being and now you are paying so much interest on that stupidity that the agony your hands will be in tonight will only be soothed when you coat your hands in a thick coating of BioFreeze and feel the mother-of-all-ice-packs hit with a fury that is intensified by your arctic air conditioning hitting the menthol hour after hour.

I look up with mock surprise and see that it is almost always an hour later than I thought it was, even if it is in the middle of the afternoon and that is a stupid thing to worry or think about anyway. I try not to hurry the process along, but I always manage to. I always miss obvious typos, leave our commas where they are supposed to go, or my favorite, forget to capitalize the goddamn I. Nothing I have ever written, ever, has been as time sensitive as I seem to think it is. I always hit this frenetic pace towards the end as worry starts to creep into panic and I hit the keys so hard that some of them simply don’t work anymore and I actually have to have a website open so I can copy and paste the characters of the wounded keys into the writing to make it look like I don’t have a palsy or an unnatural hatred for the letters on the bottom row of my keyboard.

However, there is always a calm that washes over me at the very end. I make the sentences shorter. More to the point More succinct. I breathe deeply and I finally end with absolutely nothing accomplished, a stupid acronym ending that no one but me understands, and the always unpopular onomatopoeia.


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