I Left Skidmarks on the Theater Toilet Bowl
Monday Dec. 16
I didn't go to community service. Ave Scuipac called this morning and asked if I could work for her. I told her I couldn't. I slept in for the first time in a long while. It felt good. Shirelle and I had breakfast at the Living Room on La Brea and Third. The we saw "Jerry McGuire". It was so-so. Good acting, but it's soul was all on the surface, no challenge, no depth. Shirelle liked it. She's pouting now on her way to the laundromat. I have to get a washer and dryer. She talks about spending money on a new couch and having clouds painted on the ceiling.
I got a Christmas card from my father and stepmother today. I've got to clean up my desk again today. Tomorrow I sub for Sciupac. It's sunny today. The first breaths out the door felt clean. My lungs are bad. Days like these make me think I won't live too long. Human Comedy is more a series of vignettes about a small town than it is a novel. Little psychic value spent as when following a character to the bitter end. We observe Homer from far off, even his thoughts come to us through the window, like the old man watching from in the house as the boys steal apricots off his tree outside. I pray for Shirelle at the big city laundromat. "Jerry McGuire" talked about being complete and not being built for love. My armpits smell a little skunky. I left skid marks in the movie theater toilet bowl. What about marriage? What does it change? I didn't say anything at the party. I didn't belong there, not only because I had something to do in the morning. I didn't care. I couldn't even try. My mom just called. She wanted to know about Christmas Eve. It always seemed so goddam solemn then. What if I walk to the liquor store by the laundromat and see Shirelle and get a bottle of wine? I don't know about these claims to know every detail of your character's life. You only know patches and threads. I've never even met Jim. It's like I can only write what I've seen and heard. He is completely unaware of me. Like people on TV. That notebook must be in my car. Bankruptcies. The story has no villain. Jim cannot help what he is. Maybe the fat bald man. Not the retard that works for him. I threw up on the policman who told me she had been killed. Long Jon quit the force. I have to clean my desk. Should I walk? Then clean my desk. Then pay these bills. Balance the old checkbook. I hardly read any Bible last night. I have a lot of typing to do. Cain and Abel.
I didn't go to community service. Ave Scuipac called this morning and asked if I could work for her. I told her I couldn't. I slept in for the first time in a long while. It felt good. Shirelle and I had breakfast at the Living Room on La Brea and Third. The we saw "Jerry McGuire". It was so-so. Good acting, but it's soul was all on the surface, no challenge, no depth. Shirelle liked it. She's pouting now on her way to the laundromat. I have to get a washer and dryer. She talks about spending money on a new couch and having clouds painted on the ceiling.
I got a Christmas card from my father and stepmother today. I've got to clean up my desk again today. Tomorrow I sub for Sciupac. It's sunny today. The first breaths out the door felt clean. My lungs are bad. Days like these make me think I won't live too long. Human Comedy is more a series of vignettes about a small town than it is a novel. Little psychic value spent as when following a character to the bitter end. We observe Homer from far off, even his thoughts come to us through the window, like the old man watching from in the house as the boys steal apricots off his tree outside. I pray for Shirelle at the big city laundromat. "Jerry McGuire" talked about being complete and not being built for love. My armpits smell a little skunky. I left skid marks in the movie theater toilet bowl. What about marriage? What does it change? I didn't say anything at the party. I didn't belong there, not only because I had something to do in the morning. I didn't care. I couldn't even try. My mom just called. She wanted to know about Christmas Eve. It always seemed so goddam solemn then. What if I walk to the liquor store by the laundromat and see Shirelle and get a bottle of wine? I don't know about these claims to know every detail of your character's life. You only know patches and threads. I've never even met Jim. It's like I can only write what I've seen and heard. He is completely unaware of me. Like people on TV. That notebook must be in my car. Bankruptcies. The story has no villain. Jim cannot help what he is. Maybe the fat bald man. Not the retard that works for him. I threw up on the policman who told me she had been killed. Long Jon quit the force. I have to clean my desk. Should I walk? Then clean my desk. Then pay these bills. Balance the old checkbook. I hardly read any Bible last night. I have a lot of typing to do. Cain and Abel.
posted by johnz at 5:50 PM
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