I Can Ride My Bike With No Handlebars

I should be editing my book but it’s Monday morning and being creative sounds so much more fun than being surgical. Going through page after page–fixing all of the red–it’s mundane. Boring. It’s just ‘Delete. Insert. Delete. Delete. Insert. Blah, blah, blah.’ So many mistakes. So much ignorance of how the English language works. So much bullshit–that felt right in the moment. I’ll polish it and put it out there. And I’ll make a few hundred bucks at first. It’ll be cool to be looked at as a real writer by a few. But the pressure and expectations that come along with it almost won’t make it worth it. It’ll help me get laid for a while, so I’ll push through after this and chop it up. Slice and dice it. Make it readable. Respectable. I’m grateful that my editor is doing it all for free. I’ve gotten help from a few people now, so I have a responsibility to polish this turd. I’ll send it back to the nice lady and she’ll slash it with her red pen again and send it back for repairs. Writing is like shampooing. It has to be rinsed, lathered and repeated, over and over again, every day. Or every other day. Okay, sometimes once every three days. But that’s only for some weekends. And usually on weekends. But you catch my drift, I hope. Being creative is much more fun. But this, this is just complaining. I have a rule about writing to never write about writing. But frankly, sometimes we need too. I just won’t post this one. It’ll only be for me. Not for the audience in my head. The audience in my head. The audience in my head… The audience… in… always looking for… attention. The middle child, stuck as a child. Always seeking… attention.

’Look at me. Look at me. Hands in the air like it's good to be alive and I am a famous rapper… I can ride my bike with no handlebars. No handlebars. No handlebars. I loved that song... Anyway, dear audience, this is for you, I guess. I’m not putting off editing to be creative, I am putting it off to complain to you. The audience in my head. My brief moments in the spotlight that happen in your head as you read my words. And then my dog starts licking his dick way louder than you would think possible and you disappear. The audience in my head. Thanks for listening to me complain. And for giving me an excuse not to edit.

I play

with demons

on weekends

and

sip tea

with God

on Monday mornings.

Life

is all about

balance.

(I don’t know what this means. I just thought it was cool.)