I am inside, staring at the screensaver changing on the tv, trying to write. My brain is eating itself.

Nicotine. That’s what’ll solve this. I have patches in the car.

I step outside and am bathed suddenly in a honeysuckle scented cool breath of morning. Moogie, my cat, trots up the steps and inside. I skulk like some kind of murderer across the yard in my bare feet, open the car, grab the patches, and skulk back.

What the fuck am I doing. 

I could be someone who runs on mornings like this. Hell, I have been. How am I supposed to write if I’m not someone who runs on mornings like this? I suppose I’ve survived childhood (so far, on year 32 of that) and that means I can write, I guess, but how am I supposed to write WELL without snorting honeysuckle dew every morning like a line of pure nature?

Then after that I figure I feed wild groundhogs and dress them for their days. Apparently the sober house near me has that as a feature–the lady who runs it, I shit you not, will feed the groundhogs out back. That’s not too weird. Like it is, but not compared to what comes next. 

The weird part comes with the fact that they trust her so thoroughly at this point that they’ll let her dress them in doll clothes, ready them for an imaginary day.

I would very much like to Be one of those groundhogs I think. Have an imaginary job like ballerina, get dressed each morning in exchange for snacks, eat snacks from a sober drunk, and then go back into the same old honeydew to nap.

It’s this ‘having a purpose’ notion that really fucks us up. I like to think on a good day I’ve transcended it. That I write because I feel the urge to, and not because I need some pivotal meaning to get stamped on my ordinary life. Yet when push comes to shove I’m supposed to have done something important, right? Says who?

I’ll beat them up.