Being a writer is a bit like being a super hero. There is one’s secret “real life” and writing lair. Then there is one’s public front, sometimes with a pen name. It’s lonely, mostly solitary work. It takes a special person to pull it off, and buckets of blood, sweat, and tears. Fans always want more, are highly critical, and more often than not, one’s best is only good enough for a moment.
A friend texted she’s finally seen Captain Marvel. This is significant because I’m “The Movie Guy.” Always there opening weekend and there’s something opening EVERY weekend. But since July 2018 I’ve been watching at home, that is, waiting for the new releases to be available for rent.
Her text saddened me. I’m going to be several months out of step. Worse still, with all the Summer blockbusters coming I’m going to have to remove myself from the group texts to avoid spoilers. I’ll be an outsider looking in at the party.
Then, as if in my own teen-coming-of-age rom-com, the realization hit me: there’s a whole world out here I’m missing being the creepy peeping Tom.
(or we can just go to the damned movies again, it’s not THAT expensive.)
“Humans are dumb and they die easy.” —Bender Bending Rodriquez
My trashcan is a bucket of sick. It’s not surprising. I work at a K-12 school. On top of that everything outside is coated in the light green dusting of Spring. There’s only so much a body can take, even for a paragon of perfect health such as myself.
I normally don’t get sick. Simply refuse to, you see.
“Where am I going and why am I in this hand basket?” —Murphy
What the fuck?
I ask that question often. I ask it because I find that the life is supremely confuzling (confusing + puzzling). I’m fairly sure life is that way for everyone, but it is particularly true for me. Why “particularly” for me? Maybe it’s my Asperger’s. Maybe it’s my mediocre intelligence. Maybe the world is just fucking crazy.