It's getting later and the dogs are shaking their coats because it is almost time to take them out. I wanted to sit for a few more minutes before the weekend came to it's official close, though.
Just a few more minutes. Then, just a few more.
Censor, censor, censor. No, I can't write that. Nor that. Especially not that-- and that other part about grief, nobody wants to hear that tonight, either. This train of thought about what to write is running because of everything I've read in the last couple of days. News, mostly, some disheartening, some triumphant, interspersed with a few personal essays, one of which, had it been on paper, I would have crumpled up and thrown it away.
Why is there so much bad and solipsistic personal writing out there, published? God-damn. So much fucking navel gazing to sift through. I tire of the personal triumph, the first-person coming of age and the how-I-made-the-right-choice-for-me stories written in the same twee tone. No more Huffington Post for me. I think I'm going to adjust my feeds to show nothing but doggo memes, PBS, and The Onion.
So sitting down to write for a moment is wrought with feelings of total paralysis about what I possibly could contribute by way of quality. I reach in and come up with nothing but a thunderous wet fart, a deafening brapper that blows us off the face of the internet. Already, an improvement.
Write what you know, said Papa Hemingway. Don't fucking lie, said Ta-Nehesi Coates. There you have it. The weekend is over. I'm going out to get some air and then I'm going to drag my sorry ass off to bed.