oohhhh fuck bloody hell i’ve set myself a word count target and now i don’t think i can hit it. i want to write about the US election, and about driving, and the sunset and the hawk i saw, and the shooting star, and the car wreck.
go back, i want to write about paris and beheadings and people being burned to death. i want to write about bernie sanders and about poppyjane and the smell of my lip balm. i want to write about the drive down to wellington and the flight to melbourne and the fact that i have seen morrissey live in concert twice now in my life, and i am only 28. i was so convinced i was doomed to be alone. meeting your soulmate at 25 is striking it rich, really. even if it was as difficult as a relationship with someone you met in a mental hospital could be expected to be. if it takes a couple of years to iron out those kinks, who cares, if it’s the rest of your life. i have to keep writing now because i want to get out of this app. they haven’t called the election for trump yet, but it looks very much at this particular moment in time, at 7:16pm nz time on wednesday the 9th of november, that donald j. trump will be the 45th president of the united states of america. this is hysterically funny. what a time to be alive. to be alive, and in love, and still fighting. olivia and i are still best friends. i am keeping harriet at arm’s length but that’s okay, it will be alright. everything will probably be alright. i am wearing a t-shirt with a louis ck quote on it. everything is amazing and nobody is happy.
i need to write, about grapes and cheese and sun-dried tomatoes and olives (there is no discernible difference between the expensive kind from the deli and the $2.50 homebrand jar) and about cats and the true detective soundtrack and the summer of 2016. both of them. i need to write about 2016 — no. i want to. i want to write about 2016. i need to write about 2013, and if it has to become my full-time occupation and my soul purpose in life, i will write about 2013. i will write about all of it, and i will write it as it was.
“write it as it was. just as it was.”
i will write about 2013, just as it was. i will write whenever, however, wherever i need to, and i will finish it, and that will be the end of it. i will write, and i will finish, and it will be over. a glass of red wine and a cigarette, maybe, with my completed manuscript on the table, wrapped in fucking twine for some goddamn reason, and me looking pensive and writerly and over it. done with it. closure. i keep typing because i need to hit that 500 word target, and then i’m back, back to the election, this escapist reality tv show, this circus — circus, yes, house of mirrors. carnival. find your carnival words. find your words. use your words.
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