I Am Emily Dickinson With a Bad Case of Milwaukee’s Best

My ass is hurting since I been sitting in this chair for two days. I really don’t work that much at the restaurant any more. Now I mostly work on this guy’s book about Bridge—the card game.

I use dashes now, bitches. Emily Dickinson up in here. Got the curtains closed against broad daylight because the fuckers outside are playing basketball and besides that I’m trying to maintain a cave atmosphere. I been passing letters out the window, but my in-laws ain’t nothing like Susan Huntington Gilbert and so them letters probably stacked up out there making me look like I take mail delivery on my mo’fuckin balcony like a boss—only I been gone a long time—or so it would seem.

It’s rainin’ —’s.

Since I started writing all serious and shit, I haven’t just let myself type shit. So, already I wrote three posts and deleted them just now. Normally, I just sit down and write some shit and hit publish and write some other shit, but now I’m all serious about it.

I used to not delete shit.

I been writing on paper with a pen. I usually do that to write some shit down about myself, but I started writing some made up shit down. I got pretty far with one story and then I was like, what the fuck is this? Whatever, I left that shit in there. That paper’s made out of recycled aluminum foil anyway. It’s fine. I been writing a lot. I been an unbidden Ibis in an Ibsen script. King of the road. I been carrying around a lighter in case any one asks me for a light. I been writing a lot. I don’t know how to finish anything. I don’t know how to finish…

I been read Bleak House two times in the last month. The first time for the first time and the second time for the second time. Henry James said that Bleak House was a forced and superficial novel. He said that Charles Dickens was our greatest superficial novelist. Henry James wrote 30 book length novels and hundreds of short stories. He was independently wealthy from before he was born.

I been trying to be stressed out a lot. I been trying to run a lot of errands. I been writing in Google Docs on the subway. I been trying to call the subway the subway instead of the metro, which is what I called it when I lived in DC. I been back to DC a couple of times. I took a road trip in a Cadillac, and I got wasted on a bus. I been reading grammar books. I been playing basketball once a week. I been listening to London Grammar. I been chatting with Kelsey Grammer on the astral plane. He told me Country Grammar was the greatest work of art since Dante’s Divine Comedy. I been skipping meals and eating graham crackers. I been weighing time in grams and cutting distance with artificial leavening agents. I been imitating Billy Graham on the sidewalk in front of a halfway house for unwed childless people who can’t seem to keep track of money.

Goodnight! I’ll be lurking around, reading your posts. If you catch a whiff of castor oil—Emily Dickinson.


9 thoughts on “I Am Emily Dickinson With a Bad Case of Milwaukee’s Best

  1. Same here, I don’t know how to finish anything. I don’t know how to finish… But I have always always deleted. It’s 6am here and I’m off to one of Thailand’s national parks and what do I see pop up on my Reader but you. Ah what a nice way to start the fucking weekend. Now go make your arse hurt some more…

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