“Does anyone really even like T.Rex?” she said with a shrug.

“I fucking love T. Rex,” I thought to myself sitting there watching this 20-something gal pontificate on the importance of Marc Bolan’s output. While T.Rex certainly deserves some love, I wish someone would take “The Slider” off of repeat in this bar.

“OK, life is too damn short,” she said. “For anyone to be forced to listen to this shit while drinking this shit,” she mockingly points at her empty bottle of Miller Lite.

I could fall in love with this gal. If only I wasn’t already in love with another. I turned away before I either fell too hard, or she saw me staring. And with that short dress of red, who wouldn’t stare?

“Hey kid?” Manny asked. “What do you think of T.Rex?”

“Fucking asshole,” I thought to myself. He knows damn well that I always look at Darby when she’s in there. Always thinking about her legs, her eyes and her damn ability to make me fucking nervous and nuts.

“You know, Manny, I was born to boogie,” was all I could muster.

She laughed. I tipped my bottle of Shiner Bock in her direction and thought I’d instantly regret it. But I didn’t. She looked me up, then down, then turned back to her friend – and my friend – Alexander Rifken.

Yeah, everyone called him Alex, except for me. I used his whole name. One day he got up on a bar stool and proclaimed that his name was no longer Alexander, it was just Alex. But me, Manny and Darby were all grandfathered. We could still call him Alex.

Fucking great guy Alex. Don’t have much use for Alexander.

I didn’t sleep much last night. The kid kept me up. He cries a lot. Hell, I cry a lot. I hope he didn’t get that from watching me. Although we do watch each other a whole bunch. He seems to sleep better when I’m typing. So, my writing, while not improving or really going anywheres, has become prolific.

Last night I wrote a line that seemed so silly, so dumb I had to read it to him. After I was done, he smiled. And I cried. Fucker looks like her. Not that it’s his fault. Hell, he’s lucky he doesn’t look like me. That’s a fucking curse.

Yesterday I got a check in the mail from the government. They keep sending ‘em, so I keep cashing them. My lawyer, well, the guy I met one night at Manny’s who is a lawyer and gives free advice to those who continuously buy him shots of Jager, told me that one day they’d either stop coming or a letter would show up telling me to pay it all back. Well, it’s been sixteen months and neither of those things has happened yet. So, I’m not going to try and fix the glitch. Instead, I’m going to stay gainfully unemployed and write. One day I may actually try to send something to someone who doesn’t think I’m talented or cute or humble or family. Someone who didn’t break my heart so I broke it right back. Anyone who’d keep coming back after I pissed ‘em off for the 100th time. Or the first time. Never the last time.

There are days when the words flow. There are nights when I wish they didn’t.

Today wasn’t one of those days. I tried to put myself back in the place I was before it happened. Before she went away. For good. Those days I went to a job that I hated. A place where I worked for maybe an hour a day, but had to stay there for eight. The people either smelled bad or had given up. A couple tried to pretend they hadn’t yet, but their faces and their bellies told a different story. I guess it happens. It happened to me. That’s why I stayed there so damned long. Just existing. Waiting for the next thing to happen. And it did. Completely unexpectedly. Completely not on purpose. Exactly the way it should happen. Exactly the way I always tell other love-lorn morons.

If you look for something, you won’t find it.

Eh, bullshit.

If you watch a fucking pot, it will boil. It will take exactly the same amount of time to boil as it did last time.

All that shit, it’s a lie. Just fucking live your life the way you want to. If you want to sit in your room and never come out to say hello to your roommates, fucking do it.

If you want to steal. Rob.

If you want to Rob, fucking Halford.

But god damn it, if you want to write … just stop. The world doesn’t need another one.