What the fuck am I doing with my life?

I’m lying here with my best friend, formerly my boyfriend, sleeping next to me. For three years we shared an address and a bed and a schedule and a budget and crag time and bar time and a lot of alcohol. We swapped bodily fluids and made cute little Christmas cards. And now he’s my best friend in the world, I no longer drink, and we barely ever touch each other. That last part sucks. It’s 4:10 in the morning and I am tired but cannot sleep. It occurred to me recently…like, ten minutes ago…that while I really want to be a writer that means I have to actually write more. Like, get up and do it. Like now.

And the horrible nasty oh-so-compelling otherwise argument wrapping itself around and about my head is still there, full on, no surprise there, just the same old, “your stuff sucks, you’re terrible, nobody wants to read what you have to say anyway, why even waste your time, this is ridiculous, blah blah blah” and it will ALWAYS be there. I don’t know of writers who DON’T have that going on. I know of writers who deal with it much better than I do, but I figured I’d just sit down, open up my laptop, pop up a new doc and go for it. Christopher Mohar told me that the hardest part about finishing his book was actually sitting down and doing it every day. Well, as I have the time, I don’t see why I shouldn’t sit down and do it every day. If it’s garbage/drivel/if everyone hates it, so what? It’s out there.

I am sitting in our little eating area nook space. It’s 4:15 now. My cat has decided to join me, probably trying to see if she can weasel her way into an early breakfast. Our house is oddly shaped; we don’t have a TV or entertainment system so the front room has a dining table in it and the nook off the kitchen, where everyone kind of naturally congregates, has a couch, a coffee table, a threadbare armchair and two small padded chairs. The couch is slipcovered, thank goodness, and I have loving and forgiving roommates who place higher value on the amusement factor of watching Roo claw her way onto the couch than the fabric for the slipcover for the couch, which has been quite clawed up since our tenure here as residents. I could never live with neat freaks or people who don’t get animals. I don’t mind them, if that’s their thing, whatever, but my animal claws things. She is made of sweetness and fur and she will get both of those things all over you if you come near her. She coats her surroundings in both and anyone who we live with has to understand this, or will quickly. Roo’s fur covers everything.

I keep yawning and I hope one of those yawns will compel me back towards bed and sleep. My computer recently committed OS suicide and I don’t know if I know the passwords to my blog anymore or have the files to find them. I am in an eerie little place at the moment, negotiating this Linux system I am not used to and having to reconfigure all of my comfy Chrome settings because NOTHING FUCKING SAVED. Thanks, Google. Argh. Talk about first world problems.


I'm a writer living in Northern Colorado. I also help run the front of the house for the Fort Collins Bike Co-op. I have two cool roommates and a snorey cat. I love my life.

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