It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m in bed. I really regret not getting takeout. That’s not unusual. One thing about me is I’m a man with many regrets, and that’s fine. It was my choice. I wanted to write.
Alone my stomach moans. Coffee isn’t food. I know that. I’m not dumb. I said that I wanted to take a nap. I don’t know why it is but often I say one thing and not the other. Maybe it’s the writer and the storyteller in me coming out in normal social situations. I’m not sure maybe it’s the little lazy fibber that I’ve been since a child, a kid who always seemed to confuse what is what versus what is not. One man’s food is another man’s poison I suppose, and I do this all of the damn time. I wasn’t going to take a nap. I was going to write. I mean it wasn’t like I was going to do drugs or something… no, I was only going to write. I don’t know why I said that. I’m dumb. Why did I say that? Maybe because in my past people haven’t given me a hard time for sleeping, but for writing…who cares?

(Rule Note: Write what you’ve seen. Only your memory can save you.)


a flask of gin


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