Haven't written a bit of anything. Haven't read either. Have rewatched Girls in preparation of the new season Sunday night. Watching it again, and having recently rewatched Sex and the City has got me thinking about how one would could might does tell a story in 29 minute installments. About how it somehow works. About how I am just as satisfied and feel like I've watched fifty minutes when I haven't. How does that work? And for that matter, how does one write a screenplay? And for that matter, how am I NOT Lena Dunham? How is it that I am fifty yes I throw them up into the Lord's face fling fling there's a lot of shit in them. How is it that I am fifty and am not yet a literary success?
I have thought often that if I weren't so lazy. If I had a real belly fire that I could somehow sustain. If I were luckier. If I had a different life. If I lived in New York. Or Chicago. If I were thin. If I weren't so mean. If I weren't so lucky. If I weren't so in love. If I weren't diseased. If I weren't so jealous. If I would just listen. If I hadn't gotten knocked up at 18. If I had been born with this brain but inside a man's body. If I were a homosexual. If I were smarter. If I would just try harder. If only I were disciplined.
But I have never thought if only I were more talented. Because I already am. More talented. Than you. Than almost anyone. Because I am better. Than you. Than almost anyone. Which is the problem. Of course. Because none of that is true. Except that it is. True.
It comes with being God himself her me all the same thing. You too of course. But today I don't count you. Only my own big fluffy marshmallow sentence-filled head.
It's 7:45. Time to bust a move. Or something. I'm growing weary of cigarettes. And maybe also Diet Coke.