Amazed at the view. Chinaski haunting me. Running from Chinaski. Wish I couldn’t run (from the) drunken-ness. It would seem (like) a great way to rid myself of this pain. Ain’t that what alcohol is for? The numbing. Been numb for too long. But the pain is caused by the drunken-ness. Not of body or drink but of mind. Allowing my mind to gulp all that I say. Believe all that I say. Drunk on it now. Gulp. Gulp. How to sufficely or appropriate enough to the thirst-hunger. Maybe then I could get my shit together and my body could once again feel like a body instead of a broken-down or breaking-down vassal. Should I mention waking this morning with an obnoxious pain on the inside bicep of my left arm? Is this an indication, an impending heart attack. What about reddened and swelling earlobes? Will the disease (of me) finally get me?
They come and go, these writers. They’re everywhere. They’re especially in every Starbucks in SF. (Like in LA (so long ago?).) Where the swining doors seem more like coffee cup pushers. There is so much variety in the American city. Blacks, whites, Mexicans, Asians–and then the fat, the thin. Ugly and smug. Happy? What there is not is anything singular–quite the contrast to Germany and the lack of pretensions here makes it that much more exciting, compared to DC, although the occasional male outburst on the streets is very everywhere.
When will you know what to say?
Two German chicks sit in front of me. I can#t get them (anywhere) away from me. (What kind of sentence is that?) And they ramble on about the things women talk about.
Nuff.
Get on with it.
-t
worstwriter 