If you’re happy to be here, please tap the little ❤️. It gives me hurdy gurdies. This is a short story written in the fall of 2021.
I really am undramatic. For the most part. I would like to believe i’m a very rational human. Though I dream, more than one cares to admit, that I may have liked to be born very dramatic, very unnecessary and yet placed in Victorian England. With a troupe and a frond. Instead I live in the 21st century. Tiresome buildings, completely devoid of castles through which I could skip, shout and dance or stare into the moors where my tear drops could go to rest.
Never gxxgle who invented the bra strap. Just don’t. It will color your world tomorrow, next week, perhaps every time you put on or remove your bra. I suppose that only accounts for +/-50% of anyone reading this, but I suspect only the humans who have a vested interest in bras will gxxle that. And I suggest you don’t.
When writing a screenplay you need character development. I have to become the fish. How does the water feel around a fish? Do fish feel? It’s hard to prove you are undramatic when you announce to the house that you have two unmatching socks and you don’t care.
Drama. I believe that was the intent of this diary rant. I am writing a screenplay in my head. I should be writing it down on paper. There are bits of this play I am gleefully willing to share and then there is this vast nothingness that envelopes most of it. Do I have to be dramatic to write a play? Do I?
I have moments where I watch the most horrific theatrical movie just to prove that I am not dramatic. There’s proof in there somewhere. The loud ka-booms, whiz-bangs and grotesque gotchas should be proof enough I lack those qualities.
Idris and I decide we will follow this storm into death, and we scream with razor-sharp swords in hand and run. Without any direction, we agree that we are more level-headed, and while fully engulfed in the storms passion, perhaps we should take a moment and reflect. Then the gas light turns on in the car and I don’t even have enough fuel to get to the storm, let alone charge it. I let Idris rush ahead, yes of course you can kiss a married woman on the cheek, do it if you must, then be off with you. He’s truly a gentleman, but not my Charming.
Now I just end up driving to the river to think. I don’t have time to think of an alien invasion or a good murder plot if i’m chasing a storm with Idris anyway. Well, not just a regular old murder. The river bounces with welcoming waves. I submerge. I float. Perhaps the stars can shine light on why my story is not coming together. “All the good murder stories have been taken.” says the moon.
Bitch. She’s right. I can write and re-write and still have nothing new to present. Maybe my play is about the playwright that can’t write anymore. The Assassination of the Playwright’s Plight. “Well?” Most of the stars are disengaged and busy twinkling to some Floyd and the ones I have managed to half amuse don’t respond with as much enthusiasm as do the Floyd twinklers.
Charming. Where did I leave Charming? Home bobbing his dude. Says it all but says nothing.
I head over to McKay’s to meander the aisle at midnight. The frozen food section frightens and incentivizes me. Just look at the ingredients in this frozen meal. The curtain unfolds, the backlight illuminates, and the slow unfolding of the credits begins. We can read that the muse is slightly obscured by a mask while its nemesis is running around with more than one damsel in distress. The minstrel at work; the mime sleeping in that corner. Frozen entrée? A banquet marquee. My heart just isn’t into trolloping the grocery store tonight.
I awake to pieces of paper scattered beside my bed. Excited but frightened that I may now be forced to write the greatest play that has ever been written. I force one arm out of the covers and reach to the floor to see if there is anything near, anything in arms reach I grab, holding my breath from 5 minutes of waking, eyes closed and teeth clenching my mouth guard. I open my eyes. The page is blank. I crunch down like a tiger zooming in on prey and peek over the bed to crispen my gaze. The pages strung about on the floor are either all blank or humorously flipped upside down to taunt me. I doubt at 2am I double-down on humor so I slide my head back to my pillow and close my eyes.
I’m just one of millions trying to project myself in something else to outlast everything else for someone else...'s pleasure. Whore.
So what. I’ll be out tonight as well.
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I like the way your mind works.
Sorry I'm so late to this party! I'm in love with the idea of your tear drops finding a place to rest. That soothes me. It's magic.