Chapin City Blues

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

One. I’m not good at this. That should be painfully obvious. Like stepping-on-a-Lego-buried-deep-in-shagged-carpet-in-the-middle-of-the-night obvious. Like running-a-marathon-after-a-year-of-being-a-couch-potato-and-wondering-“What-the-fuck-was-I-thinking?” kind of obvious. It’s taking-up-the-Bird-Box-Challenge-and-taking-an-evening-stroll-on-the-expressway kind of obvious. It’s like reading-then-watching-every-adaptation-of-The-Diary-of-Anne-Frank-and-hoping-this-time-it-will-be-different kind of obvious. Two. I’m allergic to pineapple. And kiwi. But I will eat kiwi more times than not. Say, we’re at a fancy dinner. I’m dressed up …

Continue reading

I’ve never ridden a bike in my life. And the amount of miles I’ve driven a car is equal to or less than the number of years I’ve lived on this planet. Motion on wheels doesn’t make sense to me. Even riding shotgun or in the backseat of a car is enough to make me nervous. …

Continue reading

Last night, I compiled my fourth playlist since I started up again. The soundtrack to a fake romantic comedy about a girl who works as a barista. Inspired by nothing and everything. I made two copies. One for Angela (I promised her one way before it ever came to fruition), and one for me. A …

Continue reading

I find myself at a stalemate. Last month, Jeanna asked me if there was someone else. I seemed happier and I’m usually happier when I’m “talking” with someone. “No,” I lied because even though there is someone, I’ve not been vocal about my feelings with someone. She makes me smile. She gets my mind off …

Continue reading