Maybe I don’t wanna.
Maybe I’m just tired. I don’t feel like returning your call. You took too long to figure out what “friend” meant. I have enough people to love me. I don’t need half love.
Maybe, just maybe, I’m ready for someone new in my life. I mean really new. Maybe old . . . maybe he’s been there for awhile, hovering like a . . . what do you call that thing you can’t ignore? The elephant in the corner? Or was it a 500-pound gorilla? I don’t know, but maybe I’m ready for him. Whoever he is.
I’m all clogged up. The emotions are stuck in the little holes in the drain. It’s funny what blank paper can do to a writer’s brain. I have it all here, all the things want to say. I just get so tired thinking about it. I’m trying to make it pretty when it’s not supposed to be. I guess that’s what my problem is. I never give people enough credit. I don’t think they can handle it raw.
It can’t really be that easy. Can it?
Maybe I don’t wanna. I don’t wanna get up and give an old lady a seat on the train. I will, of course, but sometimes I just don’t feel like it. Is it wrong to look forward to being old so that I can always have a seat on the train?
And I don’t want to keep lying to beggars and telling them I don’t have any change when I do. I fucking hate that. I don’t care if they use it for beer or drugs. I don’t. Seriously – if beer and drugs is all they have to look forward to, then let it be so. How much must it take out of them to offer – no, plead – to carry my grocery bags for just a few nickels? Demoralizing. I’ll give more than a few nickels to make sure they get food but, fuck, why is it so easy for people to walk past them?
Maybe I’m not so sure about everything. I wonder if things will turn out the way I have them in my head. They usually do, but I could be wrong. I don’t mind aiming too high, but I mind being left with nothing. Know what I’m saying? Then again, I’m pretty lucky. I shouldn’t let skyscrapers get in the way of clear vision.
Maybe I want to stay home and work in my jammies. I don’t want to leave the house and deal with another cloudy day. I want Spring. I want my cat. I want eight more hours a day to play on MySpace and all my other internet places.
Maybe I need a hug and a pep talk. I’m tired. Really, really tired. I want a hug and a blanket and sunshine. I want a beach. I want an ocean and some Gerber daisies. I need light.
Maybe I don’t wanna. I don’t want to focus. I want to relax, sleep for a few days and work on my little stories. Take some pictures. I want to go to the kitchen store, get a pedicure and play with makeup. I want a laugh track and I want the room to burst into applause upon my entrance. (Just once.)
I want really slow sex and cotton and iced tea.
I guess I want a lot of things.
Dangerously Enthusiastic 