Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

scatterbrainy

I’ve gotten a bit better at talking lately, which of course means I’ve gotten a bit worse at typing.

Which makes it all the more confusing when I realize that this laptop, the one I’m clicking away at right now and the one I’ve had for about six months now has a spot on its spacebar that’s been worn down by my constant usage. It’s an island of matte smoothness in a sea of barely recognizable texture. It’s a noticeable transition every time I run my thumb over it, and every time I wonder how exactly I managed to make such a weird little scar on the plastic. Maybe that just speaks to the quality of the laptop itself, rather than my own actions contradicting what I seem to believe in my head.

But it’s getting more often now, so that’s why I believe it; my fingertips are becoming transient and hitting keys adjacent or below to the ones I intend to hit, jumping the gun and adding spaces before I finish my words. It’s even worse when I consciously make an effort to type, when I shoot a glance at my nervous fingers to make sure they’re in line, they seem to flinch and trip over themselves. I suppose that’s better than slurring my spoken words without the aid of mind-bending substances.

I keep losing track of time, as well. Currently, when it’s supposed to be “Winter”, the air outside can range from “Thanks, Climate Change! Now I Can’t Feel My Face!” cold to “Is It Really Eighty Degrees In December/January/February (Probably Not, But It Sure Feels Like It)” warm within the span of a week, and that doesn’t really help in terms of continuity. (What it does help in, however, is developing my ability to come up with song titles for Sufjan Stevens.) My body now likes to assume it’s a week or month later than it actually is, and you’d think I’d be used to it by now, living in a city where April air likes to turn up around February.

A few days ago, when the weather downshifted to a lesser extreme, or if you prefer a different metaphor, when the weather decided to lessen its manic depressive tendencies, it was a welcome change of pace. I was shooting the breeze with a friend of mine in my car, and later at a 24 hour eating establishment, and for once I was hit with the sense that things were pretty decent. I’m young, my only stresses being the looming threat of true financial independence, straggling chapters of Dostoevsky and introductory statistics, and petty personal problems such as a nagging feeling that I should be going out and being the social creature that nature intended me to be.

See, there are times where I have a tendency to hate a lot of things. Consequently, there are times where I have to sit back and realize that everything isn’t all that bad sometimes, and lately, that seems to come easier than some sort of malaise or general feeling of being downtrodden. So when you also take into account that in the past, the only way I got any sort of writing done was when I was feeling particularly disgusting, not having that malaise cast a shadow over my disposition makes it particularly difficult to be productive in my more creative endeavors.

It’s probably better for me in the long run not to spew out ridiculous amounts of prose that pretty much amounts to the same set of ideas recycled through a bunch of fictitious characters and slowly descend into the pits of despair, even if the theme of said ridiculous amounts of prose essentially boils down to me lamenting my inability to get laid. I’d rather not move to Paris for a bit and eventually swallow buckshot.

Instead, I’ve gotten better at talking, going out there and taking this thing called optimism out for a spin, setting aside the misanthropy and leaving the can of hatred to rot in the back of the pantry, next to the Cup o’ Noodles I’ve had since I thought it was an honored privilege to sit in the front seat of a car. There’s little reason for me to get caught up in trifles now, more reason instead to consider things to be somewhat okay. Of course, the superstitious side of me likes to assume that the mere act of publishing this will lead to some awful times ahead. I was once told that the archaic definition of “awful” was tantamount to “full of awe”, so I’m just hoping the universe is using an outdated copy of Merriam-Webster’s.

And if it doesn’t, well at the very least I’d get a lot more writing done.

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