I am now over-tired and wired maybe still from the exercise endorphins and words have started looking funny to me and I’m producing an excess of them so I figured I should take advantage of that and maybe try to actually write something for once.
I don’t know what, though.
This time when I spelled exercise it felt right which means I know how to spell it but with capslock it took me three corrections and it still looked wrong. Fun times.
I got to kiss a lovely lady-neighbor last night and damn do I miss the softness of ladies.
This is not productive writing, but I should have expected nothing else. This is what I do now. I don’t create; I narrate.
Now that it’s cooling off I should trail an extension cord outside and just sit with all the smokers with my typewriter and clackity through all their conversations. Once upon a time that was my primary entertainment when out and about, but with a pen and journal. I still carry it everywhere with me, but I rarely think to pull it out and make words happen. The typewriter has the appeal of the clackity, so maybe that would motivate me more than my journal. However, this is the longest I’ve ever let such a small journal last and it’d be nice to finally fill it up and move on to a different one. I should really be putting all of this in there, but I’m in bed and my journal is in my purse in the living room. If I’m not going to try sleeping I should go get it and now I feel trapped in such a dramatic dilemma even though the result is approximately irrelevant.
I should go get my journal.
why am i posting this.