15 minutes of writing
I didn’t pay my credit card. Oops.
Will I do it today? Maybe.
Maybe not.
Will an AI bot scrape this and note that I don’t pay my credit card sometimes and file that info away into my digital advertising ID? Will it effect my credit score?
Probably?
Eventually.
Oh well… or oh fuck?
Who knows anymore. Shits kind of cooked. I’m kind of cooked.
Like literally; I got quite a bit of sun today and I am feeling it. I am writing this on my laptop and not on my phone.
Does that even mean anything?
I don’t think I’m that cooked.
Are you?
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Jonjeet Singh is this white guy on tick tock from Surrey (Vancouver, Canada). He walks around with a construction helmet and a construction vest with no shirt underneath. He has a big beard and is heavy set.
He makes fun of Indian culture and speaks with a bad, forced, Indian accent. Like Indian from India (Not sure what that clarification says about me).
He could be homeless. He could be larping. He could actually just genuinely enjoy Indian culture. Maybe his partner or wife is Indian? Or maybe there is a racial undertone. Maybe it’s full on racist.
Maybe it’s all of the above.
I think that’s what makes it great art. It could be any one of those. Threading the line of perfect ambiguity.
The viewer is the person who decides.
A master piece.
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I don’t want to write really but I haven’t in a while and I will try to write for the next 15 minutes or so. They say it is good to keep in the habit. And I like this habit.
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I am listening to old school RuneScape on YouTube. I am laying on the hardwood floor. My friend is at a desk doing something nearby.
I was thinking of putting on the sound of music. My friend said he like it yesterday while we were watching the Bonnie Blue documentary on Paramount at my other friend’s house.
It made me realize I don’t think I have ever seen the sound of music.
My grandma also liked it.
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Gorilla glue.
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I started working two Thursday’s back.
Today I cut up 4’x8’ ply wood sheets into 13” boards. I got 3 boards for every sheet and an extra thinner piece. I cut 24 boards. It made 72 of the 13” boards. I then walked them up 3 flights of stairs to this patio thing.
Cutting was sweaty work. The table saw I used was in the parkade. It was dark in there. I felt like a dwarf in a cave.
The carrying was also sweaty work.
It was a big lift day. My body is kind of sore but it is mostly tired.
I went with my friend to a restaurant for dinner. I had two entrees. I was hungry.
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The other day at work I was hit with a feeling of having to immediately poop. I went down 13 flights of stairs to the port-a-potty.
I did my business. It felt amazing.
I then look over to the toilet paper area and see that there is no toilet paper.
I had to call the guy I was working with to come save me with some tee pee.
I was embarrassed but I got over it. And I felt like I handled it with enough grace that I avoided it becoming the story of the day.
I knew if I was a younger man that could have been the worst day of my life.
I’m glad I have come so far.
I am proud.
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I think I might never love again.
When I look at women now I just… I don’t know. I just don’t have much interest in them as people.
Even the few who I get struck with attraction to and forget how to speak; all I want from them is sex.
I just find myself not caring about what they have to say.
Is that bad to say?
It feels bad to say.
Some advice I’ve been given is just to listen and let them talk but the idea of that makes me cringe. I’d rather hear about things I don’t care about from people I already know and like. You know?
Maybe this is just something I have to get over. Part of the journey to recovering from heartache or whatever.
Who knows?
You know?
Maybe I’m just autistic.
Artistic?
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I recently received praise for my blog. It felt nice.
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I was in Halifax recently. There was a beautiful woman at the bar. We locked eyes. I tried talking to her and forgot how to speak.
I left it at that.
It was a sad outcome.
I felt like I could have melted into her. Made love all night and into the morning. Make her have my children. And then never see her again.
But instead I looked at her and she looked at me.
That happened twice that weekend.
Her at the bar and this other woman at this boat cruise thing.
At least I said hello and asked the girl at the bar her name in between forgetting how to speak.
The girl at the boat thing I just made eye contact with a few times, imagined a similar thing to the bar girl, stayed silently watching my friends dance, talked to less intimidating (less butterfly inducing?) women, other men, and watched her depart the boat and wander off into the Halifax ether.
Sigh.
At least the fantasy was enjoyable. Perhaps one day I will find the courage to talk to women I am attracted to again. Or at least find the words to try.
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I saw the girl I was seeing back in the winter for the first time since I broke up with her.
It was at a party.
I gave her space. We made eye contact once throughout the evening; her expression to me read that she wasn’t so keen to see me.
She looked great.
Good for her.
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Alright I’m calling it here.
good night.