438-Doesn't-HELP-at-all

Bruce is in the hospital.

I don't know what happened. I don't know when he'll be back.

I just keep hoping they'll treat him well and remember to call him Bruce instead of anything else.

And most importantly, I hope no one makes fun of him.

Because he's a pink computer.

And his name is Bruce.

On Writing

The best and worst part about being back at my house is finding all of the old files and papers lost in the move. It's mostly a lot of old stories, half-written and unfortunately not quite halfway decent. I've decided, today, that poetry, is subjective. If you say it's good, then it is, mostly 'cause it can be about whatever. Everything and nothing in convenient free-form. But these stories? Isn't it funny how things can seem really good when you're in the moment...

Funny-haha, but mostly funny-depressing-fact-of-life. Definition. Artist. One who's creative work, in any given medium, withstands time and is still good after multiple viewings.

Alternate definition. Artist. Not...Me...And if you want to know a secret, I still lack the fine motor skills to color inside the lines. It's okay though. My world is colorless. Or maybe it's lineless. I'll never know. I'll never tell.

Actual definition. Artist. Not important.

I found the beginning lines to a story I wrote. Just the first few sentences but the whole story came flooding back to me. I never got it on paper. It's better that way.

It was the story of a guy named Milk.

And Milk was afraid to be alone and therefore managed to spend every moment of his waking and unconcious life in the company of others, often strangers.

Milk meets a girl.

The girl gives him AIDs.

And tragically, in the end, after all of his carefully measured efforts to never spend one second by himself, he dies. In his sleep. When the girl thought it was safe to just step outside for a quick cigarette.

And after the funeral, she finds out she's pregnant.

I couldn't decide whether to let it stop there or to finish with the AIDs related death of mother and unborn child. That's probably why I never wrote it down. It wasn't his real name, you know, Milk. I gave this guy such an elaborate history all to prevent giving him a real name. No Charlies or Daves for me. No sir.

Remember that time I wrote that whole piece without ever giving a name or gender to the main character? No, of course you wouldn't. It seemed like a great idea at the time. I was proud of that.

This story, my Milk story, was a masterpiece of thought. Still is. And I won't ruin it by putting it on paper. That would require an artist.

Not...me...

Dear Blog --

So you're not my primary blog. I haven't written since October. If my posts were food and you needed them to survive, I might've killed you several times over; and for that I apologize but I mean all at once life is beautiful and life is a whore.

I'll try and do better, I will, but I make no promises, okay? I've got another site to maintain, plus a journal that consists of -- get this -- paper and ink. Not to mention those other things I do during the day when i'm pretending that my mac isn't my life.

Happy Holidays. I'll be back before the new year. There's just not enough motivation to do everything I should be doing and sadly, you're not at the top of my list.

Go figure.

-D