Because it is there
Because it is there. Because it is here. Because I must write. Something. Every day. Because there is a ghost in my computer. Because it is a big angry cat that will eat my soul if I do not write something. Because the music in this place is too loud. Because I hate the Smiths. Because I want to roll around on the floor naked with the woman sitting directly in front of me. Because I am laughing at the two new-age nitwits sitting next to her, the doofy hippie and the woman with dyed blonde hair and several facelifts and way too much Arizona-style jewelry. Because, I dunno.
I don’t have any good stories today. Today was kinda boring. I worked. I wrote. I didn’t feel all that great. I started falling asleep toward the end of the day. I thought about rolling around on the floor naked with a friend of mine during an important business meeting. I thought about some other things. I read about how some scientists in Montana and in the Army or Navy collaborated on solving the mystery of sudden hive collapse among honeybees. I read about big-headed ants in Florida, and several species of cockroaches in California, and flies, and beetles, and fleas, too. I looked on Google Maps and found the big ugly red reservoir of aluminum byproducts in Hungary that killed several people and wiped out at least one small town. I played with some crickets in a plastic bag. I drove home. I came directly to this coffeehouse. I ordered some herbal tea. I started typing. This.
The music is too loud. The hipsters are hilariously aloof. I kinda fit in, but really, I don’t. —Jackson Griffith