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 Disclaimer: I've had a rough few weeks. 

Everybody has.

But sometimes I feel like there's fire behind my eyes.

I'm hormonal.

Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and I hate what I see.

I wonder about my life.

An army of 'what-ifs' marches in my veins.

I'm just worried about money,

And politics that I don't understand.

And my health sometimes, when I remember to.

So don't mind me 

When I pondor my significance, hurl unfinished papers in the trash, and push another dream to the side.

My problems are no big deal in the scheme of things.

I'm not suffering half as bad as others suffer.

And don't worry.

I already know but I'm just a tiny Speck of sand in the universe. 

So compared to the size of a speck of sand my tears barely make a raindrop.

I'm just Moody.

I have nothing to complain about.

I'll be fine.

Care for a Rant?

 I can feel myself aging.

Every time I feel like things are going all right, they suddenly aren't.

That's life. The eternal rollercoaster of bullshit. Self-inflicted hamsters wheel. Humanity's intense need to put things into boxes and label them. Organize your receipts. Get up and go to work so you can have the money to do the things you want to do in life. Only you never get there, do you? There's always a bill to pay for an invisible service you might never use but of course you need it. Have to have it. Superimposed on you by everyone else. Your predecessors fought for structure and restriction. We should have stayed fur-clad barbarians on the plains.

I don't know where this is going.

Fuck, I have no idea where I'm going. 

Like the sensation of sledding down an icy mountain. Keep going, avoid the trees, sometimes hit one, but always struggle to get back into that dangerous, cracked plastic, bright pink Walmart sled and keep going. Because some asshole at the top said there was something worth making it to the bottom for. And why don't we just bail? Might take too long. Might starve to death in the woods. Might get run the fuck over by the other idiots racing along behind you. Might get mauled by a bear, swallowed by the blizzard, might trip and break your leg and shit, then what?

I would rather be Jack.

I would rather be anyone else.

Maybe someone with power. Confidence. Charm. Flair. Necromancy would be a plus too.

I should be editing. But I don't really see the point anymore. I like my stuff. Other people say they do, that's cool. 

Ain't gonna pay the bills, bud.

I'm so angry all the time. Like a quiet buzzing in the back of my head, saying angry things at people, making me laugh when I know I shouldn't be laughing. But it knows when to smile. It's pretty useful I guess. Just another tool in my little utility belt. 

I wonder sometimes if this is going to break me.

And here I am -

 - just openly weeping into my boring bologna sandwich.

What the actual fuck, brain?

Dark Street

A dark avenue of thought in noir lighting is where my mind wanders,

Quickly past the pawnshop where I sold all my dreams.

I don't wave as I pass, cannot look in those dirty windows.

Afraid that one of them will see me and tell the others.

I shouldn't have worried; they saw me anyway.

I hurry by, 

Their fists bang on bullet proof glass; muffled pleas and wailing, echo, echo, echo.

My cigarette stays unlit in my hand beneath a flickering streetlight.

I catch my breath across from that diner.

Nostalgia crawls under my skin as I watch myself laugh and laugh inside.

That corner booth with endless coffee, the owner's tired frown, the careless disregard for time

The world being ours, ours, ours.

I almost go in.

I don't.

My cigarette lights with a breath of sharp bitterness, a party trick well learned.

When did it get so dark on this street?

Shadows cast by drifting doubts, heavy with rain, creep along the sidewalk.

I make it to the intersection, still closed for repair.

Equipment stationed like sentinels, 

Imposing but impotent and stuck with rust.

I inhale the sweet burning smoke,  

Angry red warmth lights the moody caution tape and road cones and the 'DO NOT ENTER' sign. 

I can feel my fingertips again; not yet

Not yet

Not yet having faded to a ghost in these dark streets.

Stream Of Thought

  I sit like a gremlin.

Or someone with 'atypical sexual preferences' -?

(Its a joke somewhere. But they aren't wrong, I guess.)

I have a big heart, you know.

But it's a little blinded by the light.

I wear a pair of birds around my neck in gold and enamel and glossy paint on a purple ribbon.

People compliment it.

I told someone that it represents my loves and they asked how old my kids were and I shook my head and we laughed and while I glowed they glowered and that was that.

I dress like a man sometimes and am proud of how I look. 

But I do enjoy a frilly skirt.

Does it matter? Outside is outside. 

That oppressive force known as 'everyone else' can't help but push and pull me around, but thats what skin is for.

It keeps outside out.

And no one can touch what's inside unless I take it out to show them.

Right now, I have my palm open to feed the birds.

Feeling what you need to feel is not wrong. Sharing it shouldn't be taboo. Loving strongly isn't 'sinning' and fuck you, it hasn't been "just the internet" for twenty years. 

We are a race of words. 

My heart is a little blinded by the light, yes, but it knows where it's going. Stunned by brilliance, acceptance, compassion, imagination, and following birdsong.

So Imma keep sitting like a gremlin.

April 1st Report:

I did Jack Shit.

<3

Back from the Dead

ALL RIGHT you SHAMBLING ZOMBIES

[And by this I mean my thoughts &
 general creative ingenuity.]

Get in Line! Order up! Form Rank!

[Calm down you toxic little shits!]

Don't think I haven't noticed your listless behavior! Don't think I haven't acknowledged your lack of general ferocity, or your weak grip!

[I'm unmotivated and Depressed,
and therefore you've been anxious and confused.]

You are making me look bad! This is the APOCALYPSE, you should be frothing at the mouth, gouging out intestines and feasting on unsuspecting brains!

[We're going to have a lot of time on our hands,
 so lets try to buck-up, ok?]

Don't give me those dead-eyed stares! I know there's a beast in there waiting to take a bite out of me!

[I really need you to shake it out.
Lets just do something creative, ok?]

So this is what's going to happen, you lazy, slobbering mass. I'M going to give you til the count of 10 to sharpen those teeth, snap those shambling feet in my direction, and let out a good, terrifying moan.

[I made a new tag about zombies
 and it exploded so now you
HAVE to help me.]

BUt don't just go after me - oh no. I've got a whole camp of survivors getting soft! We have to remind them that survival isn't easy! We have to go in there and raise some hell so they feel ALIVE again, do you hear me?

[But it isn't just the cosplay -
I need to finish a costume,
and do my writing,
and prepare for April!]

As a starter, I'm going to dangle this fresh meat off of the back of my jeep here, and I'll drive it slowly towards the gates, and you idiots BETTER pick up the pace, because as soon as I get thee I'm opening the gates, and insanity is going to break out.

[April is Camp NaNoWriMo, where I've ALREADY
decided to do my first outline draft of a story -
no Pantsing, no winging it, an ACTUAL outline,
which I have never done before and
 am incredibly daunted by and
Imma need your help.]

LETS DO THIS SHIT!

[OH GOD WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF.]

*

The month Of April is coming. And with my birthday ( weee) and Camp NaNoWriMo on the line, I'm going to be using this blog as an updater/countdown/ vent box for my outlining and creative activities. 

I hope you follow along and are entertained by my general shenanigans.

Oru Out.

Fearless

It was Winter attempting to be Spring
And the Library was full of students.
(Never seen such a beautiful campus
--a campus, for a library! Indeed!)
I sat quietly, struggling, in our meeting room
with collection of jotters, scribblers and doodlers,
so focused on our humming screens.
(This thing I was doing was impossible
and I hated it.
Still do.
But.)
At one point I needed to look out the window,
and see more then black times new roman on pixelated white.
There was a dog out by the bike racks,
owner's coat draped on the pipe and leash around the stand.
He was all black with dainty white toes and a smudge on his nose,
maybe fifty pounds, no more.
He waited at the very end of it's lead, watching where its master went.
(I could not see who they were, nor when they left their friend outside,
but did see the two children approaching.)
They were small, perhaps weighing in the same as our
lab-pit mix, red-collared, floppy-eared boy.
One remained by dad, who watched just as I did, but the other one -
fearless
bright orange shoes and a shirt of washed out rose
padded with faux stealth over to the great beast, one hand raised, poised,
ready to strike,
face twisted in concentration at the corner of a small smile
The dog watched her hand as it dances just above his smudged nose,
and then
like a ballerina's dance,
it came down
gently and skipping
over his forehead.
His tail started wagging.
She crouched in the chilly not-so-chilly air
by the bike racks at the library
and huddled there,
comforting the dog,
whispering things I could not hear.