Friday, June 12, 2015

Long nights and early mornings were among the moments I sat down, had a pen on hand, and wrote on a journal that I bought for $6.45 at an art supply shop downtown. Long nights and early mornings I'd write. And write. And write. Scribbles. Numbers. Grocery lists. A drawing of a sandwich. Or maybe even a number from a girl I friended at a coffee shop.

But it's those moments I really cared so much about. I would write stories of what had happened at a party when I had photographed a friend throwing a cup full of beer at someones face. Or the time I saw a guy pick his nose and flick it out the window while heading to work. One night stands. Throwing balloons at cars full of paint.

At one point I had a feeling that someone would grab the book and read it for themselves or for other people. Exposing my thoughts and feelings about how little my penis was or how little people were or how little my ass was. Written things that said "fuck I'm stoned and I really want some taco bell right now" or even ask stupid questions such as "why didn't that girl at the liquor store by a carton of eggs when she could've bought it cheaper at the Save Mart store down the street $2 less?"

These written things would be used against me if I were to run for governor. Headlines like ARTHUR THE STONER or ARTHUR LIKES PARTIES, POT, AND TACO BELL. A reminder of how I failed to keep my memories secret. It would kill my chance as a politician.

But it didn't matter. And I never cared if anyone read it. Those are the experiences I felt. Those are the things that made me the way I am. Those doodles, grocery lists, and phone numbers of people I'll never call... they are assets to what I do as a human being.

So, the moment I head in a room filled with unwashed clothes and printed photographs thrown on my bed I take a seat, adjust myself to the desk, have a pen on hand, and write on a journal I bought for $6.45 at an art supply shop downtown.