i can never decide if i had a choice about this
2007-03-09 9:38 p.m.

"this" being many things. i wonder if other writers feel the same way.

well?

i've got that dumb feeling that sounds like this: well? time to start out there?

i walked out of the dance club, and davey and daniel were passed out on the sidewalk, less than a block away.

i lay with them and i think i cried though i bet not, but i can't be sure because i had been drinking, but the sky was so black i thought i was choking.

pathetic fallacy--the sidewalk was furious. i lay on it and it hit me, on the back. it pressed itself against me and said, "you fucking bitch," and maybe i sighed.

but maybe like a rapist, it pressed itself against me and held a knife to my throat. it cooed in my ear. "you horny fucking bitch." yeah. "can't you go a fucking year without breaking yourself?"

"can't you write about something else? are you a narcissist? a martyr? are you hopeless?" it rubbed me up and down. "you gonna write about this? you gonna write about every dick you suck?"

why's the sidewalk so fucking cruel?

"lay off me," i said.

"emotional midget," it said. "damaged goods. you can't move past it? must you dwell, constantly wallow, lay on me like a lover and feel sorry for yourself? can't check into therapy, marry a soldier, bear children, wipe the counter, feel solid? can't work in an office and worry about gas prices? got to lay on the sidewalk, unpeel yourself, bear your heart, relive everything three times?"

i said, "sidewalk, i fear this may be my career."