I tend to watch the days pass without doing anything, out of nothing but the sheer desire to not do anything. Public holidays would come and go, and it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for me to come out of long weekends achieving fuck all.
Friends have recommended I schedule a mental checkup, but I think I’m more lazy than depressed. After seeing some of the things people go through, I’d say I’m pretty mentally sound, as far as I’m concerned.
It was a cloudy day, and Caleb kept to the shadows as he crossed the street. He didn’t want to be seen, though he knew that avoiding contact was inevitable. It had been getting harder since—What was that? Was that shadow there earl—
A searing pain tore through Caleb’s back. He let his damn guard down again. Instinctively, he tightened his grip around his duffel bag as he started to move.
Caleb leapt aside, the hints of a second strike whooshing past his ear. He didn’t turn to face his attacker. He just sprinted as fast as his legs would take him.
Photo: Joan Sorolla
So I woke up one day with this ache that ran from my neck to my hand. The pain was a solid six (on a scale of ten), and it was constant enough to interfere with my day-to-day.
Googling wasn’t the best of ideas, since the symptoms matched that of a heart attack. Two doctor appointments and one Chinese masseuse (not a sitcom) later, I’m still perplexed as to what it was.
Photo: Thomas Leuthard
I know you’re busy, and you’re probably reading this post because you’ve got some time to kill between getting ready for work and your daily commute, so I’ll make it worth your while.
I mean, I can’t promise that you’ll get anything out of this, but hey, that’s the internet for you am I right?
Photo credit: Thomas Leuthard
I’m at the neighbourhood coffee shop sipping on a bottle of beer. Visits here are always a quiet affair. The customers tend to be alone, just like today. Some are nursing beer bottles, while others tuck into their dinners for one. I’m aware of my flatter-than-usual jeans pocket, because I left my phone at home today. It doesn’t matter. I could use some time apart from the internet anyway.
I may have romanticised the writer’s life way too much. I’ve always pictured the typical writer as a broken but attractive soul, shelled up in his (or her) study, surrounded by books and way too many mahogany chairs. He’d stare out his window, lift his finger in exclamation, and break out his trusty typewriter (a Remington, of course).
This has begun to be my definition of a wild weekend
An out-of date blog reeks wretchedness. It’s that feeling you get when you peer into them dingy ‘cybercafes’ with computers that are actually gambling machines—and while we’re on that subject, I wonder why they don’t just straight up break out the blackjack tables, because that shit ain’t fooling anyone.