Friday, March 25, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.


You got some of it on ya. Still. You can take a million showers, kill a billion brain cells, fight all the wars the machine pumps out. It doesn't come off. 

You can scrub with bleach, give yourself a lobotomy. You can do whatever you want, but it ain't going anywhere. 

You let yourself get dirty - don't expect me to hand you a towel. And don't you go throwing it in. You forfeited that option. His name's Ray, and he deserves a daddy. 

I don't know if your burden's heavier than anyone else's. I just know that we all got 'em. Yours is an ugly one, hurts my teeth. I can't quite wrap my brain around it. Still feels like something that happened to someone on the TV. 

Take the drink if it stills the hand. Hell, I'm no Puritan. Crush it up and shove it into your body. Shoot it. Fold that shame in memory curtains and bury it in your yard. 

But don't expect it to come out shiny. Ain't gonna happen.

ATTENTION, I WILL IN AND OUT MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo

Friday, March 18, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 


I'm not mad, I'm just scared, worried; I look in your eyes and you're not there. It's all rage and fire and brimstone, and it's disconcerting. If you were bigger, I'd be terrified. I picture dams exploding, massive earthquakes, volcanos erupting - all in that 1950s newsreel patter - I can hear the doot doo doo doot doo. I wish you could hear it, too.

You're so beautiful. Simple to say, says it all, no need to dress it up. You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And I'm not just talking exterior. You were gifted with the exterior, inside cleaning, free pine scent. Hell, they simonized your tires. But you're not beautiful when you get that way, all spit and fury. No one knows what to think. And usually I'd think, then fuck them.

But I don't know what to think either.

I guess I'll go back and forth on it. Like cliched tides and the windy updrafts your moods still ride. Sometimes, I'm not seeing the glass half empty. Most of the time I'm not even thinking about glasses - they're like tides. They cheapen this whole thing. But I can't say the truth truth.


Because words like that don't come back. They'd just lay there. 

And we'd have to look at them.

ATTENTION, I WILL IN AND OUT MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo

Friday, March 11, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

Of course it wasn’t fair. Wasn’t reasonable. That didn’t stop the barrage of bullshit, gag-choked blithering. Bilious clouds and bile. You sat with your mouth draped over your chin, thin skin, teeth flared. You wouldn’t have even thought that possible. But you looked just like a mangy wolf, one been caught too many times, but always steps in the trap. Ain’t fair. Don’t matter. Pigeons scatter.

Sure, you could have tried to find a solution. Absolution. Resolution. Revolution. Bullshit. You never could have tried because the trying wasn’t in you. In you? Fluff. Bits of string and dandruff and radio jingles. You never were nothing. A vessel. And you let yourself get stuffed with the wrong shit. I’m supposed to care?

I don’t care one bit. 

And the black suits come and the black dresses follow and you wonder, gulp, holler, swallow. Later you’ll try to eat, but the potato salad will get stuck in the middle of your chest. And you’ll be jealous. Because the dead don’t pay bills. And they finally get to rest.

ATTENTION, I WILL IN AND OUT MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo

Friday, March 4, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

You sat back, stretched yourself against the blue, plastic resistance of the chair, arms braced against the desk - the one they made for right-handed kids. No one ever talked about that. It was one of those things. Like how Billy got to act crazy and not get in trouble for it. How Michelle couldn't get the words to come out of her mouth in any sensible way. 

The way Mrs. Johnson looked so, so sad sometimes. You felt bad, but it didn't stop you. 

It's all an electric mystery. It's spice on the wind that you can't place, but that feels as familiar as an old mitt. You killed hours in those musty rooms while your mind was outside; you braced for the onslaught of boredom. The hours they would take from you - you could already see them evaporating. 

So, one day you just ran. Got up and nobody stopped you and you made it home just in time to collapse laughing. And Mom didn't even get mad. 

Then again, she didn't get much of anything since Dad died. And it had been years.

ATTENTION, I WILL IN AND OUT MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo