Every Fucking Space Between Novels…

Every fucking space between Novels and SS

by

Preston Kullingher

 

This is killing me, the fucking anxiety. I know that I need to write but nothing interesting comes to mind. Fuck nothing comes to mind lately. I’m not sleeping for some, I don’t know, two days, I guess. I need to masturbate. No, I need inspiration. I have not written any crap in the last few months. I’m a failure, the worst, damn, ragged, smelly, son of a bitch. I should have been an actor. No, no, I should have been born good at something. I need money. I mean, I don’t need so much money, you know? Just a little, to buy food, drink, self-love, these shits. I need to write, that’s it. Feel the lightheartedness of a good short history or the paranoid spiral of a fucking novel. It’s better than a fuck when it’s over. It gives more pride. The beginning is bad in all ways, in every sense, badly made preliminaries; It makes you almost give up starting. What I want to say is that what I would like to do was to mend a short history in the other, you know? A great novel and then a better one. It is. All the fucking space between the novels and the SS fucking me. I need a woman. A good, unknown woman at the bar, beers, conversations, casual sex. I need to be in the game, I need this to feel alive and then to write. The conquering conquest.

It is. I have to leave. Winning the night, breathing in the cool and dirty air of late autumn night, harbinger of bad days to come with the November rains, as Guns says. We need to be positive, news reports, but in times like these it’s hard to look at the horizon and glimpse a rainbow. By the way, I’ve seen a lot of rainbow lately from the LGBT movements wanting to get their space in this dog world. Good luck to them.

The streets of LA are empty, no soul wandering around, just me. The bars must be empty too, weekday, everyone works except the indigent and the writers. I mean, I work writing my shit. Sometimes it’s pretty hard, weeks to find a single good phrase in the tangle of the mind. In others everything flows naturally. I walk into the bar and take that panoramic view. I see a real woman sitting by the balcony alone, and you know what I mean when I say REAL; It is not these snobbish, vulgar, and futile nowadays who can not keep up a five-minute conversation without taking their eyes off the goddamn cell phone some three hundred times. You know one by how you sit and look. Legs crossed, dressed at the right time neither sexy nor chaste, hair … Oh God! I love those curly hairs with a kind of cut or half-layered hairstyle with blonde tones. And the stare straight ahead when you take a good dose of your drink, seductive, powerful and at the same time as her look away from me and the door is light, inviting. It’s this mix that makes me crazy. When she sees me at the door, she lowers her head and smiles. Got it.

I think a good short or the seed of a novel will come up tomorrow morning, or maybe even in the middle of the night. Start the game.

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