Type. Type. Type some more. Something will pop up in my brain, I'm sure of it. It's not working yet, but that's sort of the point, isn't it? Yet. An implication of an eventuality. But. Maybe not. Where's my cell phone? I need to call my friend. The neurotic one who enjoys fucking her own life up. She claims she doesn't, but I know she does. She keeps doing it, even though she has a good idea of what the outcome will be. Hell, she writes about what the outcome will be, but she does it anyway. She knows what her "yets" will be... implications of her own eventualities.
"What are you doing?" I ask, genuinely pleased to be speaking to her. I know she'll make me laugh, inadvertently or not. She gets mad at me sometimes for it, but is it my fault she's neurotic? Hell, no, so I'm gonna laugh away if the opportunity presents itself.
"Fucking my life up."
Okay, she didn't really say that, but I heard it anyway. Here's what she really says: "Packing. I'm going on a trip and have way too much to do."
"Are you fucking your life up?"
Hah! No, I didn't really ask that, but I should have. She'll invariably respond with a resounding "no," but then almost immediately tell me a story of some dude who's treating her badly, or how she's treating the dude badly, or how she's flat broke but really enjoys her new kitchen cabinets that replaced her old cabinets that were just fine.
"Where are you going?" Yes, that is the real question that came out of my mouth.
"Somewhere to fuck my life up."
All right... I'll stop. "A seminar," she answers.
"Of how not to fuck your life up?" Sorry... couldn't resist. "For work?"
"Yep. Laura's taking the kids this weekend." She has three kids. Two are wonderful, but one's a bit of a retard. Not like disabled retard, but stupid retard. I mentioned that to her once. She thought I was joking. I wasn't.
"She gonna help fuck their lives up?" Wow... I guess it's true. I AM a dick. "That's cool. Where's the husband?" Husband, boyfriend, some dude. Don't ask. I'm not telling this story for detail or enlightenment, I'm just bored.
I hear her other phone ring. "Oops," she starts, "that's Laura. Can I call you back?"
"Nah," I reply. "I'm going to write a bit."
"Okay. Talk to you soon."
With that, there's a click and another click. And with that, I return to my computer and stare at a blinking cursor on a white screen. I need something to write about. Hmm...
I watch as my fingers type, F-ing Up.
Type. Type. Type some more. Something will pop up in my brain, I'm sure of it.
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