Wednesday was supposed to be blog day, but I’m a slacker by nature and I let my self-imposed deadline pass, as usual.
Or have I? Because I’m just writing some bullshit down right now, so maybe this is the blog post. Maybe things are unfolding as they should.
Or whatever the fuck.
I’m sitting here in a pool of my own sweat, which frankly is better than sitting in a pool of someone else’s sweat, so that’s good.
I’m stuck in a place where my chest feels like it’s going to explode, sort of like that scene in Alien, you know the one. Maybe my heart is an alien.
I’ve been working on a series of self-indulgent poems and I think I have a title, My Heart and Other Winged Insects…I like the title, at least for now. Who knows.
Yeah, no. I hate it now. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter…etc etc, my heart crap, it’s been done better by better and it’s been done to death.
But how else do we explain that horrible amazing feeling? That feeling that life is just too too much, that your heart is too big for the bone-cage it’s in, that it’s clawing its way out splintering sternum and ribs as it makes it way from your body like a moth breaking its way through its brittle pupal case? Hellooo? Mixed metaphor much?
Jesus, I wish I was just a normal Shmoe.