To Eat My Cake Without Having It
Tu 2-16-99 10:36 AM
What's to say? I'm at school. The kids are practicing for their Stanford Nine test. I'm feeling a little disillusioned with education today. What else could I do? Move back to New York and act? Move to Los Cabos and write? Whatever. I typed for fifteen minutes this morning. I rode my bike to school. We had a cheesy little vaudeville-style, Afro-American history month assembly. I'm writing with a Barbie pencil of such poor quality, it can't be sharpened properly. You have to pick the wood from the lead with your thumbnail, and the point is not sharp but flat. Whatever. It's just exercise. I guess we'll tell the old Kmart story. I guess. Everyone at school is asking me about Valentine's Day. Am I engaged? I don't want to be asked. Shirelle was sitting on the couch eating nachos and chocolate and drinking beer and watching tv while I was trying to write, and it filled me with loathing. Then she would smoke a cigarette and my loathing would intensify. I ate eggs and a pork chop for breakfast this morning. What else? What, other than the glaring, screaming fact that I am an asshole? I want to eat my cake without having it. I need to hurry up and finish this bullshit so I can hurry up and finish Tar Baby. I'll get a cup of coffee at lunch, and then I'll hide out. I wonder if we're going to Vegas on Friday. I can't leave until three. That'll get us there around seven or eight on Friday night. I wonder what time my baseball game is on Sunday. Another fucking squeeze. Whatever. I can't hit anyway. My reaction time is shit. The impulses have to make their way through damaged nerve endings, fucked up brain cells. Whatever. It's lunch time. I'd like to eat, but I guess I'll wait until I get home. What else? I put two hundred bucks on a retired credit card for dinner Sunday. Ugh. When's next payday? When was last payday? It's still almost three weeks away. The kids are telling me I'm a good drawer. "You should be an artist," they say. What else? The sky is gray, like my soul. Yadira gave me a Valentine's card with a picture of the prince and princess from the Disney version of "Sleeping Beauty" on it. [a black ink line drawing of the card, with the principals dancing hand-in-hand] Whatever. Who believes in fairy tales? All I want is a beer. And a new paragraph for Jim. And to be gone. Gone on an adventure.
What's to say? I'm at school. The kids are practicing for their Stanford Nine test. I'm feeling a little disillusioned with education today. What else could I do? Move back to New York and act? Move to Los Cabos and write? Whatever. I typed for fifteen minutes this morning. I rode my bike to school. We had a cheesy little vaudeville-style, Afro-American history month assembly. I'm writing with a Barbie pencil of such poor quality, it can't be sharpened properly. You have to pick the wood from the lead with your thumbnail, and the point is not sharp but flat. Whatever. It's just exercise. I guess we'll tell the old Kmart story. I guess. Everyone at school is asking me about Valentine's Day. Am I engaged? I don't want to be asked. Shirelle was sitting on the couch eating nachos and chocolate and drinking beer and watching tv while I was trying to write, and it filled me with loathing. Then she would smoke a cigarette and my loathing would intensify. I ate eggs and a pork chop for breakfast this morning. What else? What, other than the glaring, screaming fact that I am an asshole? I want to eat my cake without having it. I need to hurry up and finish this bullshit so I can hurry up and finish Tar Baby. I'll get a cup of coffee at lunch, and then I'll hide out. I wonder if we're going to Vegas on Friday. I can't leave until three. That'll get us there around seven or eight on Friday night. I wonder what time my baseball game is on Sunday. Another fucking squeeze. Whatever. I can't hit anyway. My reaction time is shit. The impulses have to make their way through damaged nerve endings, fucked up brain cells. Whatever. It's lunch time. I'd like to eat, but I guess I'll wait until I get home. What else? I put two hundred bucks on a retired credit card for dinner Sunday. Ugh. When's next payday? When was last payday? It's still almost three weeks away. The kids are telling me I'm a good drawer. "You should be an artist," they say. What else? The sky is gray, like my soul. Yadira gave me a Valentine's card with a picture of the prince and princess from the Disney version of "Sleeping Beauty" on it. [a black ink line drawing of the card, with the principals dancing hand-in-hand] Whatever. Who believes in fairy tales? All I want is a beer. And a new paragraph for Jim. And to be gone. Gone on an adventure.
posted by johnz at 9:42 PM
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