Practice

Practice. this is practice. What am I practicing for? A performance. Which I guess is just a practice that counts. But if you're truly practicing, you shouldn't be able to tell the difference.

I feel good.when I practice. I should practice more often. I so rarely practice. Practice is healthy. I will practice.

I feel like I whine a lot when I write. I don't want to do that. nobody wants to listen to whining. We sure do like whining ourselves though don't we? no? I guess its just me.  No. no I don't like to whine either, I just feel like whining right now. I'm doing everything in my power to refrain from whining, including writing about whining.

Emotions. pesky things. always exhorting us like there's something we can actually do.  I guess their alright when it comes to motivation, when a task is clearly necessary and attainable.  But when the time for action is past, emotions never seem to get the memo.  Yo, Emoto, just leggo already. That emptiness isn't going away anytime soon.  Those smells don't have those meanings anymore. Those vacant drawers, that gaping closet, this amenity-free bathroom, these bare walls; they are home now. Accept it.  What do you want me to do? redecorate? Do I look like someone with any sense of design? Look at my fucking blog for christ-sake! It's fucking default! Because I don't care!  Why do you have to care?  You never cared before! Why, now, must you decide your surroundings are so barren and uninhabitable?  What am I supposed to do about it!?!?

I don't have time for this shit. I have dreams to dream about. Look at me, writing like a champ. 5 days in a row I've manage to vomit incoherent existential angst all over the blogosphere.  I'll be famous any day now. It's only a matter of time before some big-shot publisher stumbles upon this literary masterpiece and offers me a lucrative book deal; effectively beginning my career as Hemingway. I'm just going to make my living being Ernest Hemingway, traveling and drinking and loving beautiful woman and writing about it in such a way as to spurn my entire generation a revolution of romantic malaise.

Except the only beautiful woman I've loved might actually read this. I guess I shouldn't care, right? But how am I supposed to write Hemmingway-esq romances with her sitting there comparing and contrasting the story with the reality?  And what if I decide to hate her rather than love her? What if I want to paint her ugly and vulgar and emphasize the blemishes?  She should have enough awareness to know that's not really her, right? She should be able to discern fact from fiction, to appreciate a sacrifice of accuracy for the sake of art, right?  I wouldn't.  But I'm not the reader, I'm the writer.  I get to make the rules.  I get to call the shots.  If the reader doesn't like it.  The reader can put the book down and walk away.

(Disclaimer: All characters appearing or referred to in this blog, including myself, the author, are completely fictitious. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental)