It is getting late into the evening. I am waiting silently in my cold home for my wife to arrive back from New York. My feet are freezing but some how my upper body feels warm. I have had the good fortune to find out that my third short story Writer’s Block was published on this day. Not bad for a lazy writer who would rather drift off into a dark window than put words together on paper. I am one of those writers who writes only because he must. If I ignored the bug it would turn into a full blown sickness. I know not where this need to orchestrate ridiculous short stories comes from, possibly from an earlier life lived as a lie proceeded by the profound pursuit of honesty in my older age. This would be a fair summation of my work. The characters I create and the situations that they find themselves in are all absurd fictions that desperately want to relay a glimpse of truth to the reader. The only literature that I seem interested in creating is a literature that compulsively lies but is dead honest in its message. For some reason I am always trying to pass along some kind of message through my strange tales. Sometimes I feel like such a stranger in the times in which I am living and writing is my way of crying out for help. Everything is in the message.
Once again I poisoned myself today. While driving I ran over a thick plastic bag which has melted all over the muffler and fuel lodge. Each time I drive I am intoxicated by the fumes that ascend up from the melted plastic (I have scraped off as much as possible). I become dizzy and am left with a lingering cough and headache. The only cure for this malady is time and a lot of water to pass the toxins through my body. My strategy to get rid of the remaining melted plastic is to drive around in the evening with a respirator on until I am able to melt the remaining plastic off into infinity. If this does not work I will pray that someone steals my car, taking the burden off of my sticky hands. Why things of this nature seem to happen to me I am unaware. I suppose it is the cosmos or the god/dess of writing filling me with unnerving struggles so that I am forced to connect the parallels between absurdity and real life. And from this possibly the literature shall flow…..