(A reflexive, in middle-voice. Whatever that is.)
What is my fucking problem?
A need to leave myself alone? To explore the loss of sanity in the name of productivity, while prepping for the looming zombie apocalypse, and retreat from existing in public places that play 70’s synth pop from overhead speakers until my brain feels like George Romero’s grand children’s Play-Doh?
I need a hovel. A place to go. A place to stay. A cramped enclosure fit for sleeping and writing, and possibly fucking. I’m not really sure about that last one. A place about half the size of your average drive-through Starbucks. A box to call my own. A box with a toilet and a shower, and a kitchen too small for Barbie to use, as if Barbie could fucking cook. A box with a bed against one wall, and a desk with a chair against another. A box ten steps from end to end, so there’s no temptation to fill the space with up-cycled dumpster chic shit. A place to drink coffee and hang my art while I hang my head.
A place that only exists in my writer’s mind. Because, if it did, what excuse would I create to keep from being there?
© Copyright 2014 Bill Friday