Maybe he’s a Republican
Tomorrow (today, technically) I have a short laundry list of things to-do. Run to the grocery for the things I forgot on Friday on my out-of-control quest for more food that I didn’t need (need: sandwich makings, Motrin — don’t need: cake), clean out the fridge, tidy the house, give Paul Anka’s bowl a bath, email a few people, not think about how much I don’t ever want to go back to work, call my Daddy and wish him a happy father’s day.
Earlier today while ku nkiko was suggesting things to do that weren’t making Britney Spears!Sims’ life hell, ku nkiko mentioned writing. And oh wait, I don’t like to write anymore. For a minute, I was a little offended. How dare she suggest that my lack of writing is the result of suddenly not liking it? Then I realized that there’s a grain of truth in what she said. It’s not that I hate writing. It’s more like I hate my writing and all my ideas and I’m going to try to stop referring to myself as a writer because I’m not and it’s really hard to explain that to people. What I am is just like a lot of other people. I’m in my late twenties, I’m living from one day to the next, and I worry about things like taxes and insurance and how I’m going to afford things like a car to replace my very tired current car and retirement and what I’ll do as my parents’ health begins to fail.
Perhaps the perpetual cynic in me but I don’t believe people who constantly need to reassure those around them that they are fine/awesome/totally in love with life/SUPER HAPPY. I’m all for repeating something until you believe it but it doesn’t work as well with other people. They are subject to their own vile cynicism. Bastards.
When I say double down, what to do you do?
Double my ass down.