The Saturday Morning Fuzzies

I want to write something. I need to write something. I've got to write something. I'm a writer who doesn't write. I feel like a writer with nothing to say. I've got to find a voice.... what do I need to say? What do people want to read? I don't know? Why don't I know? I don't think I have much of a clue? Clueless? Fuck me! Is that why barely nobody reads this? Could be? Maybe? Probably? Most likely? Huh? Bugger!

Maybe, I'll just sit here and play with myself, ha, ha! I'm good at that, after all. Better at that than anything else I do, except perhaps sleep. But then again, what boy isn't?

Actually, Sam is coming over later and he's good at it too. It's why I like him, after all. Oh, it's not the only reason I like him. He's smart and sweet and sensible and normal and quite lovely too. And he likes me, which is half the battle, don't you think?

And I like him, which is, quite possibly, more important. I recognise the barriers I put up previously, that I didn't even realise I was putting up, you know, all that over processing stuff. Is it going too fast? Are we getting too close? Do I want this? Don't I want this? Where is this going? What if... what if... what if... I've relaxed and I am just letting whatever happen happen, no fear.

Although, he doesn't drive, which is a black mark, to be sure. And a downer last night when I was trying to entice him over to my open fire, my cosy couch and me. Yes, he wanted to come, yes, he knew where he'd rather have been, yes, he knew he was being lazy, but, the two trams and quite possibly a train on a cold, wintry night was just too daunting. And we're both northern suburbs, not so far as the old crow flies, but just not connecting quite so easily in tracks on the ground.

Grrr! is what I thought.

Shane and I got stonkered on red wine, and ended up falling asleep in front of the teev by midnight. But, not before, Mark W. came over tweaked off his brain and he and Shane had an argument, (In one corner we have the pissed and in the other corner we have the drugged... and nowhere will logic come together... real pretty) which I felt compelled to leave the lounge room for. Ex fucking boyfriends, and all their baggage. Eekhads!

When I found myself in my room wondering what to do, I thought, this is ridiculous and I marched back down there and... offered them tea. It's as good as anything, to make them stop and think.

Shane said he was sick of Mark W. getting off-chops on the weekend and then coming down like a bitch mid week, wanting Shane's help to do so. But, I saw that look on Shane's face, maybe it was that Mark W. didn't bring any to share?

So, as I sit here just freshly out of bed, wrapped in my dressing gown, with the sun shining in through the window and my cat rubbing her warm pelt against my legs, slurping on my first coffee, I think about what to write and I think about how I can kidnap Sam from the far northern suburbs - actually, the middling northern suburbs, but it might as well be... – to get him here now, so I don't have to get up, leave my couch or get changed, or, in fact, stop thinking about what it is I'm going to write. You know, like Samantha, I'm wriggling my nose, but...

Maybe, I could write about his brown eyes? His olive skin? His cute smile? The way he looks at me? Or, in fact, the sexy way he fills his jeans? Or maybe, as I've said previously, I might just keep that to myself.

Maybe, I'll write about something completely different? Masturbation, sleep and procrastination, the three things I excel at. Ha, ha! I'll work it into a story? The day I slept through my boyfriend's graduation day because I was up all night wanking and then I was too tired to pull it together the next day. Too long? Crack, smack, whack?

Oh, maybe I just need some more coffee?

Sam just text. I'm going to (my) Mark's house auction, Sam is heading to the CBD with his housemate, a couple of hours and he'll be all mine. Big smile.

Who cares about writing anything. I'm going to have a shower. Have a nice day, I know I will be. Big smile.