A cunty life

An innocuous 1980's movie plays on the television.  The cats (Buk-cat-ski and Hunter S. Tomcat) are lounging about the room.  There is a heavy smell of sage and patchouli.  The fan blows.  The fan always blows in our bedroom, largely because the noise it makes, masks the noises that I make, that annoy her.  My breathing is a fine example of one of those noises.  She once said, "You do a few things that annoy me, like breathing."  Just moments ago, I pointed out that she had somehow managed to smear eye makeup on her forehead, at which point she proceeded to purposefully smear the eye makeup all over the rest of her face.  She is currently sitting next to me on the bed, the hood of her hoodie up over her head, because she is cold, even though the heat is set to 85 fucking degrees. 

We have both officially hit the wall that we always hit every evening.  It happens around 8 or 8:30 pm every night.  We get to that point and turn into cunts, the both of us.  It probably has to do something with the fact that we both get up around 4AM every morning.  We both work full time jobs, jobs that each carry their own brand of stressors. 

I had started writing this weekly column a little earlier in the evening, but I scrapped it because I despised the uninspired words that I wrote.  I opted to read instead.  I was reading through South of No North, a collection of short stories by Charles Bukowski.  I'm going through a several day long period of not being able to write and usually Buk can spur something out of me. 

"I thought you were writing." She asked me.

"I was, but I hated it, so I stopped." 

"What day are you going to post your weekly column? She asked.

"It was today.  I was working on it, but I stopped."
"You have to write it every week if it's going to be a weekly column." She pointed out the obvious.
"Is it going to be a bi-weekly column?"

"You can't fucking fire me.  You don't own the blog." I pointed out. 

Truthfully, I was laying there reading, considering writing about what was currently going on.  I was thinking about writing about her walking around the room burning sage, to ward off negative energy.  I was thinking about writing about her telling me about a link she found online, that advertised 148 documentaries to change your life.  She declined downloading the list, because it was too much pressure, not changing your life, but feeling like you had to watch 148 documentaries.  I was thinking about writing about these nightly conditions in which I strive to be a writer.  She thinks our life is boring, but I love every goddamn, crazy, fucking moment of it. 

You see, this is how we basically live every evening.  We come home from our respective jobs.  We eat good food.  Good Lord, do we eat good food.  We relax.  We read books.  I try to write most nights.  I work on the novel I'm trying to write.  I write and edit poetry.  I type words for this sad little column.  Then we hit the wall and all bets are off.  Sometimes hitting the imaginary wall means that we spend the evening in silence.  Sometimes it means that we get cranky, then realize that we are cranky and start laughing at our idiocy.  Sometimes we hit the wall and we just get plain stupid, slap-happy and comical.  Those are the best nights.  When we are both sharp with the wit and one-liners and comebacks.  Those are the nights when we could probably hold our own in a really good sitcom. 

Regardless, this is the bane of the blue collar writer's existence.  Trying to find enough brain power and discipline to still write after being awake for 16 or 17 hours, 10 of which I've worked, on my feet, on a concrete floor, building a Jeep every 54 seconds.  Trying to find inspiration, while holding my own in an old fashioned game of snaps.  (In case you are unaware, snaps is a game that we played in the hood, a game in which two participants would take turns verbally jabbing at each other.)  It is hard to focus on writing when you are involved with a game of snaps with a quick witted, smart mouthed woman. 

So fuck it.  You want a fucking weekly column?  One that is written every week?  Here it is.  Me sitting on the bed, a crazy 80's movie playing.  Her sitting next to me smoking, playing with her cell phone and providing commentary from the fucking movie.  It's a crazy, sage filled, kitty loving, comeback flying, makeup smearing, the heat is up too fucking high, cookie eating, cigarette smoking, cunty life.... and I love every fucking moment of it.  It is not mundane and one thing this angry writer can not tolerate is fucking mundane.