There is no dog.

a short story loosely based off of something that happened to me.

Do you sometimes feel like things aren't going the way you planned them? I do. There is distinct taste of salt and copper, and some sort of lingering acidity on my tongue as I round the corner, heart in my throat. 

I look back on my life, and I sometimes feel like I know where things all started to go wrong, but I can't quite figure out why, I know this happens to other people, but I legitimately have a good excuse why things went to s**t, I tell myself as I round the next corner, heart pounding, head throbbing.

I don't want to stop, because then it'll all catch up to me, the thoughts, the words, the feelings. It all came to me so fast, rushing into my mind, ripping me apart like a sandbar at high tide, is that to many metaphors? is that the right to? is it to? or too? f**k! I round the next corner as though I am being chased by an ax wielding goblin, I run as though I am Indiana about to be crushed by a giant ball of poor metaphors and heavily salted character dialogue. as I round the next corner, I tell myself this is just a phase, everyone goes through it, it'll pass, I'll be fine, is that to many commas? I don't know anymore, my self destructive self examination has led me down a street I don't recognize, as I literally and figuratively lost myself in thought. I just want to be good, no I just want to be great, why can't I just capture a piece of greatness? is that to much to ask? I guess it might be. I look around, there are no landmarks I recognize, no street names. I listen to the dreary and dull hum of the streetlights as they catch bugs in the moonlight, the only thing I have anymore is the clarity on these midnight runs, the rest of my life has become an unwieldy troubled mess, most of it not worth sorting through, I guess this is where I should introduce myself as the main character. 

My name is James, and I am an aspiring writer. I follow the daily protocols, before work I sit down and try to write some pages for a story I haven't quite figured out the plot to, and then after work I read over it, usually I trash it, then start again. it isn't that its horrible, or the worst thing ever written, its just sappy pulp level dialogue and a plot that would make L. Ron weep for joy. I have no creativity. I backpedal hoping to find my way. Or get lost in something better, as I hold my side stitch I contemplate my mediocrity, its not just that I am mediocre, but I'm not prolific enough to be Stephen king mediocre, I am truly the worst kind of writer, poorly written, and infrequent. I don't know what to tell myself anymore. I guess i'll know whether or not I can write soon enough. I found my path, back to my apartment that is. 

I think I'll be okay, I tell myself this mantra a lot. most people have better self assurance programs. I just tell myself to make through another day, now if I was trying to continue my trend of poor writing and frivolity this where I would bore you to death with the frivolity of my midnight routine, but instead i'll just abbreviate it for you.

shower.

small talk with dog.

watch things on internet for hour.

sleep.

I follow this pattern pretty religiously. so it really doesn't matter, what I... '

I open my apartment door to see that my entire apartment has been cleaned out, I've been robbed. I panic for a second as I look at my useless dog, I had to get a small dog. I think about calling the police, I decided to make a police report in the morning. With all of my worldly belongings currently being pawned at the nearest pawn shop I collapse on my floor, my dog peed on the carpet. There is no god.