Are You Mad At Me?

Because this is all I'm going to write? Because you're at work, or rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and expecting a masterpiece, or at least a kick-you-in-the crotch-post, and all you get is this? Are you mad at me, because after planning on telling you about The People On The Bus Story Part Two - about how my first interaction with one of the first people that I met on that trip went, all that I ended up doing tonight was kicking back with the neighbors over beers, and then the cops came because, ever since my friend Tom moved in with my friend Al next door - the neighbors hate them. Noise. So the coppers came, Mugsy. And then by the time I came back to my house, it was already getting late, and all I care about now is playing some Star Wars Galaxies and then trying to get some sleep. I even sound like Yoda now, yes?

Don't be mad.
Sometimes it's hard.
Sometimes it's easy.
If I really wanted to, I could, I guess.
But I'm not like I was before.
I had a hole in my heart.
A vacancy in my soul.
It was easier to fill up space.
Now the process is slower.
More laborious.
But, I think, a richer and more rewarding experience in the long run.
Quality.
Versus.
Quantity.
More of a process of sifting through all of the important details,
Than the expungence that ruled my life before.
Writing shouldn't be ruled by guilt.
Writing wants you to fuck it.
Writing doesn't want to be wined and dined.
Writing doesn't want you to hold it's hand.
Writing comes.
Then it's done with you.
Leaving you to wipe up after it.
Put your pants back on,
And get the fuck out, it says...

Sure, I'll call you...