Last night I tweeted a series of phrases selected at random from one of several active free-write notebooks, punctuated with days of a week. By “selected at random” I mean flipped to a page, looked, typed the first complete sentence(s) I read.
I don’t like it.
The series reads as follows:
“Panic. Stress times physical ailment. An acute realization of frailty accentuated by an acknowledged reality of loathing & mistrust of self.
Monday.
Author. How humiliating for our hero to admit that as an ambition.
Tuesday.
You are expected, and then you are liberated from that sour-dour bunch of Narcissisitic assholes.
Wednesday.
The end of such a slovenly device ain’t exactly sterile.
Thursday.
That moment when peace in the middle east, uncomfortable sweaters, alarm clocks, and what’s for dinner all stopped mattering.
Friday.
All of this has to do with living. Noticing these off putting details that break up the monotony is the best part.
Saturday.
That’s how I knew he would be coming for me. That’s how I knew I’d finally reached the start.
Sunday.
Never enough. Never enough love, never enough money, never enough booze & never enough effort. never enough sunshine, olives or time to say
Monday
23:23 is the new 11:11.”
