A Day in the Life of an Unsuccessful Writer
I spent an hour watching a spider crawl across the ceiling this morning. I was covered in shades of blue and grey while playing what-if’s in my head, all the while avoiding getting up to face reality.
Reality? I pondered that even further while I watched the ceiling fan in my spoon. It became an apparent analogy of my life when I could no longer see that reflection, because my spoon had become covered heavy with soy cream and coffee.
This had been the 306th day of my life with out you, with out a partner of any kind, not that I’m counting or anything. I woke up rather chipper, well something was chipper, but that I’ll save for another story. I did wake up with every intention of “seizing the day” but I got distracted by an empty spot next to me, and that fucking spider.
I pulled out my tarot deck and picked a card. Fuck, the Ten of Swords. It’s going to be a great day. Of course, I’m not worried about being stabbed in the back, I do a good enough job of fucking myself. No one has to sabotage me. I’m a train wreck full of nuns and babies.
As I walked to the door I stopped to ponder my guitar. It’s probably time I pick it back up. A poet isn’t much of a life-mate, but a poet with a guitar? Fuck, I just became another stereotype. Every hipster with half a brain can write half ass poetry and strum the guitar. Forget about an aged punk rocker with no real prospects.
I’d try to talk to people, but even with my morning meditation I seem to be a huge prick. Here I am in line though, more coffee, and the asshole besides me, who I’ve never seen before, tries to start a conversation with me, and fuck that guy. Asshole. What an fucking asshole. I look at him and just nod. “Be nice” I think to myself, but he doesn’t stop fucking talking. The barista knows me, and by god, he knows that look. “Hey” he says “What are you working on” he asks to distract me. We just smile at each other and I say “I’m just trying to get this guy in the bathroom for the blowjob he promised me” “Fuck!” I thought. The barista wasn’t surprised, but said “Hey now, we don’t allow that kind of talk or behavior here”
I apologized, grabbed my coffee and left. I looked back just to see if the guy was still fuming. It might have been the espresso machine, but I swear I thought I saw steam coming from his ears.
I hop on the bus and head to my meeting. I sit watching other busses and cars and trucks and people pass by. Each with eyes set on “seizing the day” or some other theatrical bullshit they’ve made up in their heads. Heads full of dreams, desire, and well, hell I don’t know. I look at the guy dancing to his music with his pants down and marvel at him. “That guy has it figured out” I think.
Shortly after the Portland transit police step into the bus and ask him to leave.
He was an older white man, because of course he was, and and an argument between him and the transit police broke out. Most of the passengers ran or moved out of the way. Not me. I was wishing they sold popcorn so I could really enjoy this fiasco. I had to settle with the flask held firm against my side in my jacket pocket. The argument turned quickly into pushing, which turned into punching, and ended with the older white guy teabagging a transit cop before he was tased. The comedy kept going as his bladder emptied onto the cops and onto the floor of the bus. They shuffled us out, me laughing the entire time. Fuck, now I’m going to be late.
I fumble into my meeting, grab more coffee, and sat down. It was after I cracked a crude joke that I realized I was in the wrong meeting. The room was a menagerie of smiles and frowns. I half assed apologized and left the room.
I finally strolled into my meeting, twenty minutes late, grabbed more coffee, and sat down. “Have you deem drinking?” The manager asked. I just smiled and said “Pfft… I’m a professional writer, have you ever known us to drink on the job?” This was met with laugher all over the room, except from that pretentious prick of a manager. He mumbled something about being on time and sober next time. I wanted to tell him the story of the teabagged cops, but he obviously didn’t have a sense of humor,
As the meeting drudged on I was informed I was being introduced to a new client. I was shuffling through my bag when I heard someone clearing his throat. I looked up to see the manager asshole standing there with guess who?
That asshole from the coffee shop.
I smiled and honestly giggled a little to myself. The manager asked if we knew each other. My smile said no, but the other man’s angrily expression said otherwise. I offered my hand, apologized for being late, and sat back down. The meeting went on for two hours and fortunately Wanda takes great notes, because I couldn’t remember any of it.
It’s now 2PM, what to do? What to do?…
Well, the bar is open.
Instead I hope on the bus, an uneventful ride this time by the way, I get home, and make a peanut butter sandwich. It’s really all I have to eat. I haven’t shopped in weeks. I washed it down with some warm water, and realize I need to go shopping.
I walk out my door, flirted with the elderly woman who lives next door, and took off to the supermarket. I get a half a block away and remember the bars are open. It’s 6PM now. If I’d known when I walked in I wouldn’t be walking out until they closed I probably would have gone in anyway.
After hours of comparing stories and dick sizes I knew it was time to go home. I had enough booze in me to be brave enough to hit on the bartender. She was a taller strawberry blonde, who cussed like a sailor, and didn’t take shit from anyone. She shot me down, again, and told me to drunk I’ve gone home.
I staggered down the street, back to my apartment, fumbled for the keys, and went to bed. It doesn’t matter if I’m alone or with someone. My mind is always on that one woman, the one that “got away”. I drift off to sleep with nothing on my mind except the spider I see crawling across the ceiling.
Tomorrow will be just like today.
A Day in the Life of an Unsuccessful Writer
I spent an hour watching a spider crawl across the ceiling this morning. I was covered in shades of blue and grey while playing what-if’s in my head, all the while avoiding getting up to face reality.
Reality? I pondered that even further while I watched the ceiling fan in my spoon. It became an apparent analogy of my life when I could no longer see that reflection, because my spoon had become covered heavy with soy cream and coffee.
This had been the 306th day of my life with out you, with out a partner of any kind, not that I’m counting or anything. I woke up rather chipper, well something was chipper, but that I’ll save for another story. I did wake up with every intention of “seizing the day” but I got distracted by an empty spot next to me, and that fucking spider.
I pulled out my tarot deck and picked a card. Fuck, the Ten of Swords. It’s going to be a great day. Of course, I’m not worried about being stabbed in the back, I do a good enough job of fucking myself. No one has to sabotage me. I’m a train wreck full of nuns and babies.
As I walked to the door I stopped to ponder my guitar. It’s probably time I pick it back up. A poet isn’t much of a life-mate, but a poet with a guitar? Fuck, I just became another stereotype. Every hipster with half a brain can write half ass poetry and strum the guitar. Forget about an aged punk rocker with no real prospects.
I’d try to talk to people, but even with my morning meditation I seem to be a huge prick. Here I am in line though, more coffee, and the asshole besides me, who I’ve never seen before, tries to start a conversation with me, and fuck that guy. Asshole. What an fucking asshole. I look at him and just nod. “Be nice” I think to myself, but he doesn’t stop fucking talking. The barista knows me, and by god, he knows that look. “Hey” he says “What are you working on” he asks to distract me. We just smile at each other and I say “I’m just trying to get this guy in the bathroom for the blowjob he promised me” “Fuck!” I thought. The barista wasn’t surprised, but said “Hey now, we don’t allow that kind of talk or behavior here”
I apologized, grabbed my coffee and left. I looked back just to see if the guy was still fuming. It might have been the espresso machine, but I swear I thought I saw steam coming from his ears.
I hop on the bus and head to my meeting. I sit watching other busses and cars and trucks and people pass by. Each with eyes set on “seizing the day” or some other theatrical bullshit they’ve made up in their heads. Heads full of dreams, desire, and well, hell I don’t know. I look at the guy dancing to his music with his pants down and marvel at him. “That guy has it figured out” I think.
Shortly after the Portland transit police step into the bus and ask him to leave.
He was an older white man, because of course he was, and and an argument between him and the transit police broke out. Most of the passengers ran or moved out of the way. Not me. I was wishing they sold popcorn so I could really enjoy this fiasco. I had to settle with the flask held firm against my side in my jacket pocket. The argument turned quickly into pushing, which turned into punching, and ended with the older white guy teabagging a transit cop before he was tased. The comedy kept going as his bladder emptied onto the cops and onto the floor of the bus. They shuffled us out, me laughing the entire time. Fuck, now I’m going to be late.
I fumble into my meeting, grab more coffee, and sat down. It was after I cracked a crude joke that I realized I was in the wrong meeting. The room was a menagerie of smiles and frowns. I half assed apologized and left the room.
I finally strolled into my meeting, twenty minutes late, grabbed more coffee, and sat down. “Have you deem drinking?” The manager asked. I just smiled and said “Pfft… I’m a professional writer, have you ever known us to drink on the job?” This was met with laugher all over the room, except from that pretentious prick of a manager. He mumbled something about being on time and sober next time. I wanted to tell him the story of the teabagged cops, but he obviously didn’t have a sense of humor,
As the meeting drudged on I was informed I was being introduced to a new client. I was shuffling through my bag when I heard someone clearing his throat. I looked up to see the manager asshole standing there with guess who?
That asshole from the coffee shop.
I smiled and honestly giggled a little to myself. The manager asked if we knew each other. My smile said no, but the other man’s angrily expression said otherwise. I offered my hand, apologized for being late, and sat back down. The meeting went on for two hours and fortunately Wanda takes great notes, because I couldn’t remember any of it.
It’s now 2PM, what to do? What to do?…
Well, the bar is open.
Instead I hope on the bus, an uneventful ride this time by the way, I get home, and make a peanut butter sandwich. It’s really all I have to eat. I haven’t shopped in weeks. I washed it down with some warm water, and realize I need to go shopping.
I walk out my door, flirted with the elderly woman who lives next door, and took off to the supermarket. I get a half a block away and remember the bars are open. It’s 6PM now. If I’d known when I walked in I wouldn’t be walking out until they closed I probably would have gone in anyway.
After hours of comparing stories and dick sizes I knew it was time to go home. I had enough booze in me to be brave enough to hit on the bartender. She was a taller strawberry blonde, who cussed like a sailor, and didn’t take shit from anyone. She shot me down, again, and told me to drunk I’ve gone home.
I staggered down the street, back to my apartment, fumbled for the keys, and went to bed. It doesn’t matter if I’m alone or with someone. My mind is always on that one woman, the one that “got away”. I drift off to sleep with nothing on my mind except the spider I see crawling across the ceiling.
Tomorrow will be just like today.
