I love my friends. Some of them ask if I have written anything this week. They are not greedy, they just think it is a healthy sign that I am getting better. They want to know that I am still writing and that everything will be okay. The fact that it has been less than a week doesn’t seem to sink in because it is so surreal.
Of course I haven’t written anything yet.
But I have some ideas. I have one story banging around but I’m not writing it because it is really sad. I don’t want to be that blogger. You know the one, who undergoes a terrible life change and then starts writing stories about characters who go through the same life change and shit plays out. Christ, you’re my readers, not my therapists.
I want to write something funny. I want to write something with a lot of action. I want to write a summer movie with big explosions and bigger breasts. I want to write amazing sex with even more amazing dialogue. I want to go blow your fucking socks off.
So we’ll see what happens this weekend. This weekend I get the rest of my stuff. I get boxes and boxes of memories and coping mechanisms. I’ll get stuff that was either bought for me by my wife, or bought by me trying to make myself happy in a unhappy marriage. Bleh, I am not looking forward to that.
That cheap meaningless light story is looking more and more attractive.