December 9th, 2024 - Plaster

Dear TNY,

Well color me fucking late because I’m just now writing to you regarding “Plaster”.

And I really don’t give a fuck.  But that’s nonspecific to you or this story.  It’s blanketed.  I just got back from Hawai’i.  I spent Thanksgiving and some associated days on O’ahu and then went to The Big Island for some more days.  I swam.  I ate great food (when I could eat).  I got high.  I drank a lot.  I was mostly happy.  But there’s something going on behind the scenes that I don’t quite understand yet.  I don’t care to finish this fucking jewelry box.  I don’t care to read.  To write.  I don’t want to drink.  I don’t want to not drink.  I don’t want to talk to new people.  I don’t want to meet anyone.  I don’t want to go to my storage unit.  I don’t want to call my kids on the phone because I also don’t want to recognize how much of their lives I’ve missed.  I don’t want to write this fucking letter and I certainly didn’t want to read this fucking story.

I’m just done.  I know I have to keep going for everyone else, but I don’t feel like it. I’ve created a very curious piece of life machinery that seems to be intentionally designed to chew me up and kill me. And it’s working again.

Story.  The only tension I could feel in this piece surrounded the interaction with the girls.  I wanted the tall one to participate.  She didn’t.  The writing was plain and I liked that it was heavy with dialogue. But, meh. It was meh. And what else is there to this?  That war fucks people up?  That it’s bad?  Yeah, man.  But I’d go to war tomorrow as an alternative to normal life.  Maybe that’s why we go to war.  We get tired of just living. 

Anyway, I’m in a bad mood.  I did work on the box today.  The bracelet drawer is nearly done with woodwork and the ring/earring drawer copper work has begun.  It’s moving along for sure.

Anyway, fuck it.  Fuck this.

Nick