I don’t write to be famous, I don’t write to be known, I write because I am and I want to be read. How sad to fill a room with paintings no one sees or play music no one hears. Writing is talking without sound, singing without score and dancing without movement and yet, it is all of them. It is a solitary art conjured from thought and expressed by the need to communicate.

HEAD SLAPS, SPEED BUMPS and LIGHTBULBS, one woman's WTF, oops and ah-ha moments of life.

They were published once, and as every writer knows, once is not enough.

Monday, July 8, 2013

I pick things up I put them down

A little more than a few weeks ago at my 9 to 5, which is usually whenever to whenever, I had to move some stuff, a lot of stuff, so much stuff in fact that once the shit was moved I didn’t know where anything was. This wasn’t just a floor-move it was big time heavy lifting and arranging. I was hustling my ass and popping Ibuprofen Softgels like they were M&M’s.

So...fast forward more than a few weeks, I’m just getting used to where everything is and a desk-jockey, with an empty bottle of white-out for a brain, decides that putting everything back where it was, is optimum. Fuck optimum and the office chair it rides over the edge to hell on.

I hate it. I hate punching a time-clock, saying “how high” when they shout jump and most of all I hate that I hate it. I used to love my job, couldn’t wait to get to work and actually stayed beyond my shift just to get things looking right. Now all I want is to be home, write, take walks, naps, write, cook, clean and write. It sucks to live in ‘have-to’ land and yet where I’m at in life is heaven compared to some. I am blessed, I am thankful and yet as I contemplate my constitutional right of pursuing happiness, I’m still not satisfied.

What’s with that anyway?

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