There’s a book my Gramma has been trying to get me to read for a hot minute. A hot minute here meaning at minimum, a year. She bought it for me a while ago and has been encouraging me to start it for a long time, and I haven’t, I truly have not even bothered. Her tactics are getting dirtier and dirtier. She went recently from lamenting that she would die soon and just wanted to talk this book with me to saying, quite casually, “It kind of reminds me of your writing style, it just hit me.”

That stopped me in my tracks. “Really?”

“Yes. Something about the way… well, you’ll see.”

It worked.

I will see, or I will not, but either way I’ll read it now. We are self-centered creatures. And I mean me, not you. We–the alcoholic, the writer, and the gemini–are self-centered creatures, three of them, all sharing the same meat space.

I’ve been reading about writing lately.

It’s come to a painful climax, this not-writing thing I’ve been trying, where I run at the the gym and spend time with my family and do all the things I desperately want to be doing, yet somehow never have time for. The not-writing feeling is like an itch that buries itself deeper each day I don’t scratch it, and fear juiced up in the gut that I’ll never be able to get it if I don’t scratch soon.

I want to be able to do this for money, is truly the motherfucking problem.

How perverted is that, though. Scratching yourself for money. Wonderful. Let’s do it.

I want to do it for money, but I don’t want to be a grant writer or a teacher or any of those easy money gigs that aren’t even easy to get cuz so many of us are clamoring at the indeed posting going yes, pls, I want to itch for money!

I want to write what I want. We’re spoiled creatures, really. And I mean you, too. All of us are spoiled af.

I have so many ideas.