Waking Up in Bogota

This morning, a car outside was playing fiesta music. I mean the kind of music that makes you feel like you’re waking up in a commercial. It’s bright as hell in the apartment, and somewhere nearby there’s an important convention of emergency vehicles.

I don’t really feel like writing a god damn thing. I really just want to go back to sleep. Too bad I can’t. Too bad. 

I remember thinking last night that I am getting too wound up and I better just relax again and forget the feeling that I’ve done nothing of import in thirty years. I usually forget stuff like that in the morning. 


Fuck the dumb shit man it’s time to get active. Easy to get pissed off when you’re drinking whiskey and reading other people’s success stories so fuck em let em read their own shit. I’d rather read about other people’s depression.

I’m getting back in the “I’m going to write shit for money” mood so I am writing a lot today. I wrote a lot yesterday, too, so that’s a writing spree right there.

When I was walking through the city yesterday on my way from one job to the next, I was thinking about that bitch at work who always yells at me for some dumb shit. And then I realized I shouldn’t think about that bitch on my own time so I didn’t. I also realized I should stop thinking about shit while I’m walking through the city and think about walking through the city instead and I’ve wanted to live here for a while so might as well enjoy it.

The city smells like shit and when I woke up this morning my apartment smelled like shit because Sister fed her cat and cat food smells like shit. But fuck it, it was a good morning. I saw a three piece mariachi band on the subway yesterday.

I didn’t even drink yesterday. I came home and went to get beer and ended up in the shower and then my ass was sleep. I guess a byproduct of waking up early but I think the whole thing is I’m ready to write some shit down that forms a cohesive pattern. Some kind of story.

Robert McKee, who until recently I only know from that movie Adaptation, says in his book Story:

Mere occurrence brings us nowhere near the truth. What happens is fact, not truth. Truth is what we think about what happens.

I never thought I gave a shit too much about truth but I think I just had the wrong idea about the definition.