I’ve been living out of a Waller High School gym bag for the past two weeks. Which is a sad thing in itself, but whatever. As much as I want to claim a cramped room in Cypress, Texas teeming with junk from my old apartment, stuff too cool for Salvation Army but too lame to do much else with, I can’t. And a returned check deposit from University Square Apartments says that I have no place in College Station, Texas either, which frankly, I’m okay with. Talk about your invasive renters… I was practically sharing my room with the maintenance staff, despite having never broken anything. Should’ve made those eager beavers pay rent. I’m sure a certain Bob Dylan lyric would fit here, but I’m not that trite. And I think he was probably talking about not fighting in a war or something like that. Whatever. Everyone’s an artist.
The funny thing is, I kind of dig it. I can’t call it living by my wits since I have a car and this isn’t Into the Wild. I haven’t given up any of my worldly possessions and god forbid someone detach me from my precious Twitter. Because those oh-so-important 140 character statements are tethering me to this life. There’s something organic about sleeping in a different place every night and playing roulette with your bank account. A game, in which, I’ve shot myself at least four times this week. I’m a rebel, I tells ya. James Dean with a vagina.
Ugh. My self-absorption astounds… well, myself. A plane crashes in the middle of the ocean and likely there are no survivors and the only thing I can manage to give an eff about is why I haven’t started writing this stupid book of mine. Yeah, people die everyday. This isn’t living, though. This isn’t taking advantage of precious moments and creating something worthwhile. This is me, dicking around on my Mac Book. And not even the fun kind of dicking that favors the company of shenanigans.
I have to get over myself. I have to get over this book. My protagonist is still fuzzy. I can see its outline in an amalgamated form, a blip in the distance, and likely he or she has their shoe untied. That is certain. I thought its name was Circe but I didn’t want to fight against any Odyssey references. That’s not what I’m about, anyway. References are a little too John Donne, James Joyce hipster for my liking. My small victory for the day, I guess, is that I see something. I rather have a something instead of a blight in the distance. Blights are scary. They’re probably reformed clowns.