Today, I've worked 12 hours. A guy called in sick so I had to stay and cover part of his shift. I'm glad tonight was cold and quiet, because I wasn't in the mood to respond to any calls, let alone get out of the squad car. It doesn't matter how thick the leather jacket was, the wind still cut threw it, tonight. If I had to have drawn my gun, it would most definitely have frozen to my hand. Anyway, I'm glad I'm home.

All I want to do is get under the covers. I checked in the baby's room and Frankie is sound asleep. I call him a baby, but really he's gonna be three this year. My little boy is getting big. He's looking more and more like his old man. Poor kid. I would have hoped he would have looked more like his mother. People wouldn't believe he was mine if he'd come out blonde-haired and blue-eyed like her.  Had he, he would have been even more beautiful.

Since I was 17, I've had the notion that I am a writer. For some reason, it's what I seem to be good at, or so I'm told by professors and friends.

But God must have a funny sense of humor, because coupled with my apparent ability to write well is a complete inability to sit down and focus on writing unless I have a gun pointed at my head.

I have never had a single writing assignment, for school, for work, for a job application, that felt pertinent enough that I draft and plan it weeks in advance. This is a shame, because any classes I've taken that focus on writing demand a rigid drafting and peer reviewing schedule. Oh, my current writing professor claims she "understands" the unique needs of every writer - she even devoted an entire class day to 'meditating on our personal writing process' - but then she went on to lock us into the standard draft, peer review, finalize process. I felt duped. The bitch.

And I have nothing against drafting. In fact, every time I've been coerced into drafting, it's been nothing but a great advantage. It just seems that, as Alcoholics Anonymous might say, I am 'incapable of being honest with myself.'

I heard it through the sober junky mainline that two fellow comrades have fallen this week.  One in the line of active duty, the other was sober.

Out of all my road-dogs, co-defendants, “friends” and friends I’ve acquired over the years, I can count on one hand the number of us that are not in prison or dead.

Another friend of mine—friend, not “friend”—just took a 40 year deal with The Great State of California.  Wow!  Deal of the century!  He’s 30, with 2 children.

I’ve seen death firsthand, a few times; shit, I’ve been dead for a few minutes from an overdose and brought back to life thanks to modern medicine.  Heroin’s a Motherfucker.

All right folks. The Cult seems to be up to speed with more coiol stuff coming every day. People are posting again, birds are singing, so that means it's time for another MOnkeywright project. I know, I know, I hear you saying "past projects have met with limited success...why do you torture yourself so, Monkeywright?". Because if there's anything better than failing alone, it's failing as a group!

But we shall not fail! We shall make something amazing here! Si se puede!

OPEN CALL:

3 Actors for an audio play

Title of play:

Magic in the Seventh Inning Stretch

DRAMATIS PERSONAE:

Bobby: A young man

Jean: A young woman

Hog: A hotdog vendor

TIME AND PLACE: The upper deck cheap seats, Yankee Stadium, New York City. A hot summer’s day. The present.

Lie.

A lot.

It's not that I don't know better; it's easy and maybe I'm a creature of habit or lazy, not quite sure.

Yet.

I'm not a sociopath; I will avoid a dog while driving and don't want certain people to die right now.  I let Cancer, AIDS, HepC, and The United States Government do my bidding.

Maybe the fact that I don't believe in god has something to do with it.  Lord knows I wish I could accept Jesus or one of his monikers into my heart and just give it all to them whenever I falter, but I don't think I like myself enough to do that. 

Probably too smartass—dumbass?

I give up.

I gave up.

Hope is something talked about with lies coming from my tongue.

Then how do I explain the light?  The tunnel light?  The word processor light?

If you have ever been placed in the ill disposition of having to answer the question, "Does this make me look fat?" then you probably know how people prefer sugar coated words that border bold faced lies over the truth. Of course they tell you not to lie too. God bless these people for making an already complicated situation just a little more complicated. It is kind of like giving someone a piece of paper and telling them to write the meaning of life. Oh, but you can not use vowels and it has to make sense. Yeah, thanks, asshole.

Before I get off topic...

Recently I decided that I was going to change my approach to meeting women. Girls are the worst about complaining how they want someone to be honest with them. Shut up, you don't. But I decided that I am going to humor them. No longer will I try hard to make eye contact and offer little grins of comfort while I search for a common interest. No, I am giving that up.

Instead this is how the situation will unfold:

Take two 2mg. tablets daily for anxiety as needed. 

Separation. 

After 3 years, she’s bored.  Could be the natural state of evolution in our relationship, don’t know; don’t know if I want to know, some things are better left.  Unsaid, it’s the things left unsaid that sometimes don’t need to be.

And she’s still in my bed.  For the last month she’s been in my bed and the distance within her head puts her in shame.  This has been explained to me, by my wife, over and over, how bad she feels about still being here, when she’s really not.