I’ve gone dry. Months of knowing too much and having nowhere to put it. I open a blank Word document, the pixel-white scatters the letters my fingers refuse to willingly type. I haven’t happily written in three months and for me that implies that I haven’t lived in three months. I’ve taken to carrying a notebook around again, one that my ex gave me four years ago that I refused to fill with anything but love letters devoted to collecting her essence in my horrible handwriting. I find the note I wrote and taped to the front flap, professing my undying love for a woman who liked to love everyone but me – I later discovered. I take the lines I wrote then and the false-starts from the recent week’s worth of diligent scribbling and try to form a story:
A couple Xanax
and I’ve got nothing but southern drawl and a few static scenes.