one

It's raining. How's that for a start? I feel gummy. In need of. I wonder how it got so damned scary, this being my real life. So dramatic, this writing business, but... (something like "power through"). I never finish my sentences. I've noticed that. Especially with L. Especially with L. These fonts are terrible, I grumble. Concrete: cramps and soya sauce. Crocheted coasters with so many mistakes and my unwillingness to make new ones because that would be pretending there were no mistakes to begin with. And that was how the coasters were made: to begin with. Also: crumbs on the desk, and ashes. Unspecified. The chipped thumbnail, the chocolate deep in the crease between the sides of my nails and the skin. A result of late-night desserting and morning rush-job coats of clear polish. I don't mind. I finally believe that flaws add character. When I was younger I took a sewing class. We made teddy bears, or at least I did. The teacher sewed on the eyes of mine. One was crooked or far-awayer or just obviously not good enough for my teddy bear, the one I had made, perfectly, except for this. She had said it added character. This meant: I don't get paid enough to fix it. I'm tired and I have more important projects. You're a child, it's a bear, get over it. And she was right, for the most part.

Suffering made me gentler. Living life, working, is making me harder and more bitter. I don't like myself recently. Did I tell you I got a woman fired? She was in my way. I have her job now. Flash: you Peter Keating! You manipulator! Who are you, your father? I went there. I'm so not going there today.

It's raining. How's that for a middle? I used to have fantasies about men who loved me for my problem-solving skills. As in, I've never felt this way before. None of my other girlfriends took the time and care to help me realize that I don't want to teach writing, I just want to write! Also, the blowjobs are phenomenal!

This is the hard part. I hate this rambling, this effort for stuff I can't even use. I hate that all I could think of was the word stuff in the previous sentence. What happened to vocab? I need to read more. There's an issue of SubTerrain on top of the heater in the bathroom. Don't tell the editors I've been reading it in the bathroom. I read The New Yorker in there too, if that classes it up for you. And now I think I've reached the bottom of my thoughts, for now.