I’ve drugged myself with a glass of wine and smelly cheese. I’m not sure which one provides the psychedelic effects, but I appreciate it. The traffic was a nightmare, but I won’t dwell on it. There’s nothing new or clever that I can say about it. I’ll just leave it at that. That.

I don’t have much to talk about today. I’ve claimed in the past that that’s a good thing, that without anything to talk about, I would focus on stories. I’m thinking you’re sick of hearing me talk about this, and I’m sick of talking about it. I’ve been asking myself where the clever David went, the one with the musings that made people laugh until they wet their trousers. While nobody has ever read, and nobody will ever read, any of my writing and piss their pants, I like to pretend. You can give me at least that.

That guy, I’m not sure where he went to, but I’ve been looking for him since the end of November. He disappeared, probably swallowed up along with his creativity during the Marathon. After posting my story last night, I reread my first real short story, Zaida’s Stars. I like that story. I can see areas of improvement—particularly shortening the storytelling that the narrator does in the second half—but it was genuine and the descriptions were good. I haven’t been happy with my last three stories. There’s nothing natural about them: they’re wooden and taste wooden. I need to find someway to tell a story without feeling that way about it. Ugh.

The following are random thoughts about nothing and written with no particular skill:

The steering wheel, cold beneath his hands, wasn’t moving. The car wasn’t moving. Nothing moved, not the cars around him, the trees off the highway, or the blinking yellow lights ahead. Everything was at a standstill.

Blue rockets shot into the sky. Clown cars completed the festivities.

Running to the third row, the man knew he wouldn’t find any open seats. The theater was packed and the previews already started. He was desperate. Janet, his girlfriend, was motioning at him to join her down near the first row, but he couldn’t bring himself to sit there. A date’s still a date if they sit separately. He wasn’t sure who should get the popcorn.

Flying cows. Why don’t cows fly as they used to?

Rail. Concrete. Signs. Buses. Aggravation. Rain. Puddles. Gasoline.

Insanity stalks me, and I’m letting her in. Who’s to say she’s bad? Who’s to say anything?

I’m sorry about that. I didn’t want to write any of it, but I did, and I posted it. Things can’t get much worse than this, right? Right?