Move Along

It’s warm enough. Some might even say, “sure is hot today!” But, do you know what no one is saying right now? “Gee, I love this weather.” Its overcast and hot, the sun shined down on us for long enough to make our homes heat up and then promptly fucked off—like that guy who gets in the hot tub, cranks the temp and then “goes to grab a drink” never to return. Fuck that guy.

You might notice a hint of aggression in me today, I sure did. People came into my work, as they usually do, but today I hated most of ‘em, save for a ninety-one-year-old woman who proclaimed, “lets go get some decent food,” as if it were the only thing that she actually cared about. I can’t wait to reach that headspace—that headspace that is shared only by the elderly and Majin Buu; a headspace that is purely empty, other than the thought, “is it tasty?”

These words seem to be hard to get out today. I’m tired—I can’t seem to force myself to bed any earlier than midnight at the earliest, two a.m. at the latest. It’s childish problem of mine, and if I could force myself through it, things would even themselves out a lot for me. I just took a forty-five-minute break to stare aimlessly the void that I call “my phone,” and almost fall asleep while sitting up—watch out, moving at the speed of life over here. These are random, and unrewarding words that actually just bother me more than anything. I know there should be something in here…

I heard Ta-Nehisi Coates talk about writing your way to the beginning of the piece you’re working on, and I feel like that’s happening to me here. Chances are, once I hit my hallowed target of five-hundo, I’ll be at the beginning of something halfway decent, and I can continue on it for my own sake.  But, for now, for the blog, for posting: there is nothing but this fill. Like that cheap dusty shit inside of drywall. The pages of the blog are that nice cardboard, but this post is literally just fill. It’s exercise. This is me putting my head down and running to the finish line, knowing that it’s only a hundred meters away.

When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me about “chinks in the armour.” The way he explained it was that your confidence and your upkeep of yourself form a protective suit around you, but every time you don’t take care of something—whether it be missing a payment, putting something off, cancelling plans you’ve committed to, it mars your armour. These words, no matter how empty, are my dent removers. They are my silver polish. They are the few and far between that will keep me safe from harm at the hands of my most formidable enemy: myself.

Eleven more words are needed to finish this post properly. Amen.

See you tomorrow.