disjointed: sex and electricity
Originally published at The Off-Center. Please leave any comments there.
I have nothing to say except that I want only to descend into the deepest dark of fuck.
But, for now, I can’t.
So I’ll settle for a decent cup of coffee and forty-five minutes alone with my journal and see what comes of it. After the mind-numbery that is my average work day, I pray only that there is at least a glimmer of creativity left for the burning. Oh, but I do look the part of writer today: Picture me all clad in black, down to the bangles I’ve abandoned because they irritate me when I type, black thick-rimmed glasses and a horsetail cigarette dangling precariously from my mouth. Aren’t we the picture-perfect cliche?
All right, you called my bluff - I can’t smoke at work. Obviously. Oh, but I wanna be. Which is precisely why I don’t let myself take smoke breaks during the day to begin with.
Anyway, the point is that I felt like getting personal. I felt like saying, ya know readers? I can’t write because I’ve got fuckin’ on the brain. Part of it is the heat, a heat so stifling that I want never to wear clothes until it passes. I want to recline on clean, freshly laid sheets and stretch my arms out over my head and be beautiful to the person watching me. I tried to write in my sex blog but I got squeamish - too personal for my alter ego who is, in essence, whoever I want her to be. She has no face, no body, just fingers and a voice. Which, let’s face it, is all those potential readers will need. Five’ll get you ten that you see her name in print before you see mine. That’s fine - that’s fun.
I’m writing here now, about this, because I doubt I’ll do any other writing today. I had a blank word document open on my computer from 10AM onwards - I hadn’t even finished my whole wheat bagel when I opened that blasted document - and there is nothing written thereon. I even tried to do some free-writing, but all that came out were the lyrics to the Weakerthan’s song “A Plea from a Cat named Virtute” (which, by the way, is wonderful and amazing):
All you ever want to do is drink and watch TV.
Frankly, that thing never really interests me.
I swear I’m gonna bite you hard an taste your tinny blood
if you don’t stop the self-defeating lies you’ve been repeating
since the day you brought me home. I know you’re strong.
I have also been reading a lot of McSweeny’s. In the same breath I use to praise it, I also find myself rolling my eyes at its pretension. Oh, but I love it, I want to be a part of it. It’s full of little-known genius. I want to be a part of them. I want to write a full story in 742 words and make them love me. Maybe that will be my weekend project: Get Dave Egger’s attention and make him fall in love with me. Take Michael Chabon to bed and come with my eyes on his Pulitzer Prize (no, that is not a euphemism).
I was thinking of using Missed Connections. Again. I just love the line from Sarah Paisner that goes, “Walking Human Plague Seeks Mental Midget”. I think that could be the perfect title for a McSweeny’s story. How the dirty and diseased find love.
Oh, no no no. Jenny, find a new schtick.