February the effing first. Shaking hand spilling coffee down my throat. Commitments keeping me away - gone from you. You know the first time I saw you, I fell in love. And Maria - she's my wife (with perks) calls such scribbling the bane of her existence. Did you see the sunrise in Kansas this morning? i'm with you.
Jan. 2. Roughly 11 a.m. There's two of us in research, filing behind the department head into the conference room. He'll summarize corporate's revised vision, the inner circle requirements set by the guardians of the house. We're supposed to tweet cheesy-assed pictures, but we've been released from the company blog requirement.
"Blogging is dead anyway," Matt says. He's a short stout man with a slight Dwight Schrute look, receding hair and damn heinous mutton chops.
Jace and I go with it, not bothering to gaze up from our manuals, because it really doesn't matter. No, it really doesn't matter at all. Big graphic images of popcorn in boxes, stand in the velvet curtains like Grecian columns, a vanilla screen in the middle. Old fashioned projectors and film reels. You see it when you click there. Jace's deal.
She's kind of a freak about the whole thing, going to the Rose Heel Theater with her girlfriends, dressed like characters from the movies they'll watch. Vampirish, hobbit-like, the fat bridesmaid who pooped in the sink or whatever the hell it is. Jace's moment of gratification will come when she types the movie review into her phone and on to her blog.
I'm also an avid blogger, much like the character Laura Prepon played on that episode of House. She faithfully blogged the most intimate details of her life with her boyfriend. But Dr. House called her on her hypocrisy. Blogging about everything, my ass. Not her bowel movements. House diagnosed her with Wipple Disease, a gastrointestinal disorder that, left untreated, will bring death.
In this same episode it was revealed that Wilson starred in a porn flick, "Feral Pleasures" to help pay the bills while in med school. Wilson discovered a book in House's desk. Atheist House was reading a book of sermons written by a Unitarian minister whom House suspected was his real father.
The episode aired a long time ago. (In the 2007-08 season, actually.) What the hell am I doing here? Blogging is so 2010. I started this blog that year on a tip from a speaker for the Underworld Writers of Friends Association. Meetings were held in downtown Wichita in the basement of Old Pheobe's Bookstore.
A clusterfuck of Phoebes
I kind of hate people who call themselves writers. Phony bastards. Most can't write for shit and I hate bad writing like I hate bad rock n' roll and anyone who uses shitass words like "maneater" and "anyhoo." What do they do, but clusterfuck up the internet?
"If you want to write, the best thing you can do is start a blog," the speaker said, perkiness all over her. "If you don't want to buy a domain name, you can do it for free on a host site like wordpress or blogger."
She also beamed about the business you could do writing these "new things" called "advertorials." I couldn't see myself doing such a thing, but who knows? Advertorials. They're so over now.
I got on a host site. They own my shit now. What the hell is a blog? I don't even like the word. A lot of moms blog, raving about Bed, Bath and Beyond, goofing on how their asses won't fit in their jeans anymore and what blessings their kids are.
What the hell am I doing here? The woman who prescribes me the anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds says, "I think it's good therapy for you." Her name is Jennifer, also the name of Tony's sexy psychiatrist on The Sopranos.
I can't divulge to you the intimate details of my life. You understand it's not to be done, I know you do.
So I go to the office where we fit squares into circles and shove donuts from the bakery up our fat asses. Matt's cool for being a boss, I guess, but he's so godamn intense. Like Eric Foreman to Red Foreman in That 70s Show, I used to fear him until I figured it was no use and started responding like a perpetual smartass.
You work in order to do what you want in life. I'm sick of packing boxes and the shit of life like so many household bric-a-bracs Mom collected in her pre-dementia state. She thinks her mother is still alive. Writes her letters - a dying art form. But it's okay it's okay it's okay I still talk to her and she's with me like I'm with
__you.
