Please Don't Let Me Write

I’m nearly asleep in my bed with my leg halfway off when I hear the rain come down hard. I’m shaken out of near sleep by a vibration from my phone. I get up and sit at the end of bed. My thick thighs pressed unto this creaky painful bed, and I finally rise. I walk over to the kitchen and I’m bored. I’ve already masturbate, and I’m not feeling any sights for women right now. My movie is finished, and the songs I listen to don’t help all of the time. I pour myself some cereal and I’m not hungry but I eat it anyway. I ask my lady to play a game with me. No, the rain is soothing. I’m going to bed, she says. Alright, bye. So, I’m sitting at the edge of the kitchen thinking of what I’ll do when finish with this bowl. It could be anything, but please don’t make we write. Writing makes me sad and makes me feel lonely. Each time I write my confidence drifts away a little bit more. Writing to me is like the wife you don’t want to come home to. You love her, but she depresses you with her depressing ways. But as you look at her, you see that it is you that is depressing you. She’s the one keeping you from offing yourself. And then you feel even worst.

                Please don’t make me write. I want it as my profession, but right now, I’m young and I don’t have time for boredom and sadness. Don’t have time to think about the time I waste sitting at the edges of things reflecting on everything passing over me like a blue and dreary mirror. Then I see a bottle of wine on the table. I’m feeling like Bukowski now, so what the hell. I grip the bottle and take a swig. It goes down hard, and my stomach burns. I take another just for the hell of it. I don’t like it. I feel my stomach get progressively cooler until it goes from filling the burning ulcers in my stomach to a pleasant warm sensation. I’ve never been drunk, but I have been sad so I suppose I’m halfway there to becoming a great writer.  I’m grimacing at my feet from the taste of wine and I walk off into the darkness to my room. I look at my computer and say please, anything but write.

                And then I start writing. I’m still bored and there is an obnoxious party going on the other side of the apartment. I’m going to let sleep take me. I feel it drifting me off now. Bye.