Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

Everyone expects a miracle, but they make no sacrifice

When I started using Twitter, I followed on user (something doing with a Black Hat, or something like that) who stated that curing depression was simple. Simply rewire yourself. Feeling sad? Feel happy instead. I’m not an advocate of pill popping. antidepressants are the devil. Most of them cause more problems than solve. I picked up my quad-ruled journal I bought several years ago when I was writing for a porn blog. That is, I bought it to keep track of my porn viewing to garner something to post online. I didn’t even start it. The only thing that adorned it was a sticker both El Senor and Chico bought for me which states: I WATCH A LOT OF PORN. WHAT’S YOUR EXCUSE? It later became my cannabis bible, but that dropped after a few pages. I started using it as a journal, but I have this for that. Besides, the first few posts alone would out me at work and I wasn’t going to risk it with a nosy co-worker who likes to snoop through my musings. It now houses my fragmented thoughts. I’ll share two less personal ones with you:

Skinny people make me hungry.
A couple. Matching his ‘n’ her stick figures garbed in urban hipster skinny jeans, exaggerating their thinness by making fit people look fat and those of us with spares into sperm whales. “Jesus krist,” I wanna shout. “Eat a goddamn burger once in a while.” Doesn’t occur to me that they might be vegan. Doesn’t matter because the thought of their dietry [sic] habbits [sic] were replaced with a single question–Where do the balls go?

A woman. A low-cut blouse. Salmon-colored cardigan. Tits the size of toddler heads. I’m paying more attention to people. Well-endowed body parts. Never much interested me.

These last few days, I walked through a fog of my own thoughts. Going through the motions, only the motions are slowed down to a pause. I can feel myself retracting, returning to my shell in the public eye. In a manner of speaking, anyway. On more than one occasion, I’m reminded that I’m human after all.

I need motivation to write again. These fragmented thoughts are a part of something grander, I’m hoping. Notes to a me that isn’t ready to speak yet.

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