I think my sister's dog is a writer, it likes when my dad gives it turkey cold cuts even though he has been asked time and time again not to give the dog the cold cuts because it is making her fat but he does it anyway because the dog becomes pleased and shakes for the cold cut, I have seen my father give her several in the span of an hour.
I think my sister's not yet and maybe never to be born child is a writer because it plans to have hands.
My new favorite thing to do is when I make a typo, instead of going back to fix the typo I let my fingers go and hit a bunch extra keys on top of the typo and leave it that way, it feels like I am playing the piano.
I am trying to convince myself to stop talking and doing things around in this internet area but all that is is a tendency in me to want to be contrary no matter what, and really I am too frightened of being awake in the awake clod to not come on the internet, as much as I may try to manifest the idea that I could disappear at will.
I think the guy who I am waiting on to come over and replace a broken window is a writer because he woke up today and ate breakfast and is late and is making me tired even though I just got up and I want it to be warmer in here but paying for heat all the time is expensive and the feeling of being cold will pass.
It's okay to get disgruntled, there was a day within the last six years that I got disgruntled and went and put my hand in the Disposall and had my other hand on the switch that turns on the Disposall and I stood there looking at the fold my arms made and I realize a Disposall's blades are likely not that effective, particularly for flesh and bone.
I think the idiot who manages my homeowner's association is a writer because she makes notes in the margins of my late homeowner's bill that for a while I thought I could have used to sue her but then realized it would not hold up in court. The wall across from me now is light blue framed with a white that lends the blue the context of its blueness.
No, my feet are really, it's so cold like they are hot.
I know there are writers who get kicks about talking about being writers, from now on when people ask me what I do I am going to say I am an eater or I am metabolism.
I am not better than anyone most of the time. Sometimes I am better than a lot of people though just as often likely I am worse. Sometimes I am jumping up and down on a brand of Windex bacon-scented. I can't think any more than I already do.
If some days you want to cut your face off or spend the whole day at Kinko's making copies of nothing to see how high you can run up a bill, look here, this is the story that my grandfather always used to tell me just by looking across the room in that halfroom with the weird yellow light where it seemed like every inch of the walls had stuffed animal heads hanging from them and like the walls were those false folding partition dividers you could fold like an accordion to go on into the next room:
No really I am going to stop soon because there is a slur dam to build.
The independent publishing circuit is the same as the other one, except there is an illusion of another way, and another goal maybe, though I think the ratio of good people to bad people remains the same, which is probably more good than bad. Probably not the same at all. I am just talking to the computer.
One day I will do a good job on the good team. The metal in this room is very silver. My armpits are stinging. None of these words are words.
I don't care if this post makes you tired of me or makes you hate being involved in the text creation. It can all stop whenever we're both ready.
Please leave me negative comments about my life.