bad haiku

It had to happen.

But only what, four, five nights in?

Yep. Here I sit not wanting to type anything. Had a couple of friends stop by tonight. Drank a couple of beers. Turned on the air conditioning, and then it got to be almost 3 a.m. and they left.

So, here I sit, wondering what to type about. Work was boring. After work looked to be uninteresting as I came home and watched the UFC fights. And now, instead of being creative, I’m doing another blog entry as writing. And Word doesn’t recognize blog as a word. It must not exist.

Like ass-hattery. Or half-assery.

Thoughts of hurricanes tossed around today. How to get a ‘hurricane pass’ that allows me to come back to my house after an evacuation. That’ll be interesting. I mean, I do live on a sand bar. However, I don’t think I’ll evacuate if one happens. I’ll drive my car across the bridge before the “state of emergency” and leave it on the mainland and walk or bike back. And then watch the waves crash up against my house until the time comes when you realize you should have left and it’s too late. Maybe, that’ll be the reason that I haven’t been able to sell the red shark. She’ll be my savior that day/night of the hurricane?

At leas then she’ll remind me of things other than redheads that fucked my life up.

Ha. It still bothers me.

Why am I so tortured by something that happened in 2006? It’s 2010, closer to 2011 at this point and I’m still haunted by that shit. Fuck. I don’t want to be such a sensitive, stupid, naïve, dumb, fucked up person. Yet, I don’t see to be able to stop it.

I don’t write songs about it. I only write the beginnings of short stories about it. Over and over again. I threw away notebooks full of this shit. Some of it quite well written. There was at least a screenplay in there somewhere…

But anyways…

I’d like to think that it won’t bother me one day. But I don’t have much confidence in that. Experience sort of points in that direction. And no matter what anyone tells me, says to me, lies to me, it always clings. There’s a reason Truman was so attached to that God damn footlocker.

Ahhh….footlockers. They tell the tale don’t they? I have a new one now. Even though I’ve had it for years now, it’s still the “new” one. It never held my “bar” back in the old college dorm room days. It doesn’t have a cut out from a Moosehead sixer on it. It does, however, have chicken scratch from a kid on it. A kid that called me dad for a little while. A kid, that in our last conversation, told me he wanted me to be his dad.

Fuck. That depressed the shit out of me. I hope I’m at 750 words. But I know I’m not.

So, any ideas?

Oh. Today I signed up for a new “discount” card at Lowe’s Foods. Yeah, that’s not exactly breaking news, but it was the first time I’ve signed up for one of those things in a loooooooooong time. It was to replace the one that was in Emily’s name. It had to happen. I had to do it. Just another step toward whatever the next place is … but as I’m filling out the computerized form (no paper anymore) I find myself doing what I used to always do. I filled it out as Henry Chinaski. Is that a sad thing? Or is it just inspired? I don’t know really… It’s been a few years now since I’ve last received a piece of e-mail for Henry C. And a lot longer since I got a letter.

Boo.

This is the first time in a long time that I have writer’s block while drunk. Well, I’ve had seven or eight beers, which in the new employed but still verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry broke life of Randy is a lot. Maybe it’s the actual pressure of trying to come up with a minimum of 750 words EVERY day. But, it has to happen. I has to happen.

And it will happen.

Fuck you doubting assholes, aka, my brain.

This is certainly no better than all work and no play makes jack a dull boy, but it may regress into that…there’s always hope.

(Bad) Haiku

I miss you misses
Every single fucking day
Why did you leave? Huh?