Picking Through

I found this file of nonsense the other day, it's over a year old. Some of it I actually like and will now copy and paste here. Wish I remember writing it.

I am typing on a Thursday. I am trying to listen to Terry Gross interview the guy who played Stringer Bell on The Wire but I am typing, and my brain is actually confused. Now I am not listening to Fresh Air. Now I am ear bud-less, wishing for stories that will never be. It would be nice to set my sights on a tangible. A tangiggle. Typing as if it means something as if what I have to say is more than simply dogswaddle. Cockamamie craptastic cookaloo. I would like, desperately, to be made of stronger stuff. Stronger stuff. Stronger stuff that breaks and bends and bullies and belts and blisses and belies and burdens and believes and blesses.

And then there was this little passage. Just all these little pieces.

She is like a bird. A bird that has been dipped, repeatedly, in oil, so she constantly has this wet hair plastered to her skull—which you can make out quite well. I write what I write when I write it and I say what I say without thinking twice. Except that I think three times, or more, afterwards. And I cry over my imperfections, cry on the inside…all quiet-like. All secret pain. All demons and hellfire and taking the path of least resistance and being salty when I should be sweet and being silent when I should be loud and being deafeningly annoying when I should be smartly aloof. I have all the characteristics of a winning personality, but they never quite come out in the order necessary to win anything other than a great distance between me and those with whom I’d like to be close. If only I was dead sexy these flaws would be easier to swallow. It’s simply a fact. You can be loved more easily if you are beautiful. People are willing to put up with a lot more when they like looking at you and like knowing that others like looking at you too.

And finally.

Her arm trailed behind her, her hand a dim-witted anchor brushing up against the bricks of the building’s wall. They were not old, these bricks, not filled with some sort of history she could pick up through the coarse bristle of the mortar on her fingernails. No colonial tang of dirt and sweat.