write something, pal
you want 500 words. Fine. I understand it's not always easy finding
"artists" to "contribute." So here. I've got
some spare time on my hands anyway. When you're unemployed and
it's raining outside and your knees ache like someone's taken
a dull pickax to them while you slept last night and just hammered
away, sitting down has a certain appeal. I mean, shit, I should
write anyway. What else am I gonna do, watch Jenny Jones? Right.
(Okay, I might have watched a few times, but I was doing something
else along with it, like scanning the classifieds or devising
long-term goals.) Five hundred words shouldn't be too tough. Not
for a writer. I have to keep calling myself that. Only been four
months since Napchuck's cheap shot ended my promising career.
My first career, that is. I've got a new one now: I'm a writer.
It's going pretty good so far, I guess. I mean, I haven't been
paid or anything but there are signs of promise. Finding my voice,
as they say. And I've recently joined a chat group. I put a sign
up in my new home office that says "Go Write Something, Pal!"
And that's cool that you can't pay me for this. Don't even worry
about it, I understand. (Hey, I'm an artist, I need to be hungry,
ha ha.) It'll spruce up the résumé. Sure could use
a little of the do-re-mi though, if you get me. Me and Lacy are
eating lots of canned food these days. She really likes those miniature
corn things. I'd have to say I don't care for them. More a beans
kind of guy. But you can only eat so many fucking kidney beans and
chick peas and lentils, if you get me. Sometimes I'll eat my way
through a whole can of mixed nuts while thinking of ideas of things
to write about. Not lately though -- nuts are expensive. And Lacy's
been sick. Something unholy comes up when she coughs, and she's
coughing all the time. Makes the worst sound you can imagine. Sometimes
it's so awful and unceasing that I don't know what to do except
hide in our storage space and cry. Down there with the trapdoor
spiders and slugs. But you don't need to hear about that. We're
a little worried is all. Doctor doesn't know what to make of it
and we can't afford a specialist since it's not covered anymore.
I used to get massages twice a week and Lacy even had her breasts
augmented, all for free. Now we can't even get a fucking serious
situation fixed (not that her tits aren't serious, but this is life
and death maybe). The league really raped me, hardly any severance
or anything. They call my injury an "associated risk."
Can you believe that? Napchuck, that lowlife. He's probably in the
back of a limo right now, snorting coke off some prostitute's tits
while I sit here writing for free with heating pads tied around
my knees and a slowly dying girlfriend. Associated risk. He should
be doing time for assault, but it's ME who's in prison!! But I like
writing though. I think this could really be something for me.