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stupid weird little thing, like a diseased platypus
I’m sitting here, listening to The Doors, and writing a crappy short story. I’ve had terrible luck in the past few weeks with writing. My heart hasn’t been in it. My heart has barely been in me. It’s one of those things, you know. I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. Doesn’t matter.
Anyways, as I sit here, listening to “The End (live)” and staring at my crappy little story, the words on my screen start to spin, very very slowly. I think it’s just an optical illusion, but it keeps twisting. The top of my head feels like it’s lifting off of my brain, but my eyebrows grow ridiculously heavy. My stomach feels lighter than air.
My hands slam onto the keyboard, too heavy to lift. My lungs have never found breathing so easy. My fingers tinkle across the keys like a concert pianist’s, my eyebrows sinking lower and lower. I focus on the music for a second.
“All the children are insane.”
I feel like that. I feel like The Doors. I feel like being with a girl who I’m very connected with, who I wrote part of my first good story about, who I haven’t seen in far too long.
My wrists are killing me. I hunch my shoulders up and tense my forearms, straining. I don’t know why I’m writing this, I don’t know what happened to my shitty story, my short shit, my little piece of crap story.
And I need to go eat.
And suddenly everything is back to normal, except my neck feels a little weird.
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If I make it as a writer, I'll write for the hobo, not the professor.
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