The joys of the white page. Uncluttered, filled with possibilities. How will I waste those possibilities today? Okay, throw on the mask. Let’s see who shows up today.

My name is Zelda. And before you start in, no, I wasn’t named after the video game character. Zelda is usually short for Griselda. My parents didn’t know that, or, if they did, they didn’t care. The liked the Z and the sound, and didn’t know about the video game, and before I knew it—well, actually, after I already knew it, since I didn’t think about it much until the third grade—I was named Zelda.

I’m not normally a bitter person, but there are some things that set me off. One of them is that ridiculous name my parents gave me. And while we’re on the subject of presents from my parents, this huge ass I have, that was another gift. When people talk about big bones, they’re not kidding. My ass is huge.

And so ends my experiment in a complaining woman. Which seems very similar, surprisingly similar, to those of a complaining man.

The cup on the table, the top upside down at its lip. Ruinous riots of informational bliss. I have nothing and nothing and nothing and nothing. It’s so easy to say that. What do I want and where do I want it? Write the fucking story and stop bullshitting around. The stupid professor in the stupid classroom with the stupid infatuation with the stupid. What about the notes? Certainly some of those are worth something, aren’t they? This sucks.

Why not something about something? I thought you had ideas? I thought you had places to go and people to talk about? What happened to them? It’s so much easier to work. Maybe I should get to it, get to the work. If only it was that easy.

It’s not. I’m tired, exhausted today. I should convey my day, but I don’t remember much of it. Isn’t that the problem with days, they disappear so fast, leaving you looking back and wondering what to make of them. We had a yummy Asian-style fish disk for dinner tonight. I whipped out the wok and steamed an almost whole (if deboned and degutted by persons other than me) fish. Quite tasty.

I’m pounding away in my after dinner chair, wondering if I’ll find anything to grasp on to tonight. Yesterday I didn’t. Not surprising. I’m never surprised. Already I’m feeling the urge to flip over, to find something other than this. At least Doolies’s cleaning gives me an excuse not to immediately go down and start watching television or playing video games or staring into space. I’ve grown amazingly good at staring into space. I used to think it was a complete waste of time. I’m slowly coming around to realizing how wonderfully relaxing staring is. It’s almost like conscious sleep. You obtain some of the benefits of sleep (you can never truly get all the benefits of sleep—that moment when you wake up only to realize you can go back to sleep, and you snuggle into a warm spot in the bed and lose yourself to wherever you last found yourself in the otherworld) without the after effects of actually sleeping. Now, I know it’s not exactly a good use of time, this staring into space. But I won’t bother analyzing whether it’s good for me or not.

I keep pounding away, afraid to waste words or find places. I want more, but I always want more. I don’t worry much about it anymore. It’ll either happen or it won’t. It’s not worth losing sleep over. Obviously, my storytelling hasn’t been helped by my lack of writing otherly words. Even now I feel the weights on my eyelids. I’m being drawn down into that space staring, and I don’t think I should complain.

Maybe a new paragraph will help me hold it off for a bit. The house smells of sesame oil. Not a bad smell. There’s very little bad smells out there. I should cut this down and post it. I small glance into the life and times of Davids. Such a waste.