pit bull

Being a creature of habit, trying to write in a different location can be tough. Doing it at work has proved to be most difficult place of all.

Today, it’s at my girlfriend’s house. I already blew my consecutive streak, which kind of pisses me off, so now I’m going to attempt to write twice.

We planted a tree today. Her mom gave it to us as a way of dealing with the loss of the kiddo. We would’ve passed the five-month point sometime in the last couple of weeks. It all kind of meshes together now. Just a bunched up jumble of days that don’t seem to have much of a point. I know it’ll get better. It always does. It just doesn’t feel like it right now. Going through a lot of shit can make you realize that. To get to that point, where you just kind of understand that the pain will lessen a little bit each day is not a place that I wish I was able to reach. There are plenty of folks who go through a lot more than I have. And there are plenty of folks who seem to live charmed lives and nothing seems to take a toll on them. I know that’s bullshit, because everyone deals with shit, some just hide it better than others.

Maybe there are fully evolved folks that never get to experience pain and suffering on an emotional level. And then there are serial killers.

Sometimes I wonder if the later isn’t such a bad path to traverse.

Shockingly, I just put my writing through some kind of test. It said this is written at a fifth grade level. Ah, so close.

Maybe I should use words like metamorphosis? Christ on a fucking pony. The rain in Spain is just as fucking annoying as it is here in Raleigh, NC.

I drove out of the driveway and turned left. Some days, I turn right, but today it was a left. At the end of the block, a black guy was mowing his lawn. He turned as I drove past and stared. I stared back. Not a lot of good-neighborly behavior goes on in this neighborhood.

A pit bull is roaming the streets. No leash, just his frothing mouth and who knows what on its mind. I drive by it and look at it. He still has his balls attached, so I doubt much thought has gone into keeping him from being a bit of a bastard dog.

The next block sees houses damaged by last summer’s tornados. In some neighborhoods, those were cleaned up quick. In this one, not so fast. One house had a tree on it until last month. It’s now half-way to recovery. Albeit with a bunch of plywood walls. I see the plywood getting wet in the rain, knowing all to well that it will absorb it, start to mold, but then have sheetrock put over it and forgotten about. Until some kid, or some adult, starts having headaches. Or weird color schemes flashing in his eyes late at night while trying to drive to New Orleans. Not that that has ever happened to me or anything.

How do you make your reading more intelligent? Is it possible? Do I just start using a Thesaurus? It seems to work for some writers. Or maybe they have better editors? Hell, I’m employed as an editor and fuck if I can edit.

The knee jabbed into his throat. He didn’t know how he got here. A second ago, he was watching a pit bull wander down the road. Now, he was in a ditch with someone’s knee on top of him.

“Give me the fucking keys, man! Give me the fucking keys!” he heard a voice yelling.

It wasn’t the guy on top of him. It was coming from somewhere off to the left.

The voice somehow awakened him, however. He pushed the guy off of his throat, catching the guy by surprise as just seconds before he had been out cold.

“What the fuck?” he said as he tumbled into a watery ditch nearby.

The driver staggered to his feet, grabbing a piece of his car to use as a weapon. Obviously, some kind of wreck had happened. But what exactly happened, wasn’t entirely clear, especially in the cloudy mind he had.

“Whoah, buddy, we’re just trying to help you,” the same voice from before said.

“So, why do you want my keys?” he asked.

“To shut the damn stereo off!” the voice replied.

that’s when the driver heard it. The voice of Bruce Dickinson yelling. Very loudly. Maybe the radio should be turned off. A quick click of a button on the keys did that.

“Thanks, bro,” the voice said. “Now, give me your fucking wallet.”

The driver looked to his left. The voice now had a face. It was ugly. But that ugly motherfucker had a gun. And a pit bull, now on a leash.

“Now!”