Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m one lucky sonofabitch.
I wrote Dreaming in the Dark December 18, 2012. It was one of my first blogs ever written, and it got Freshly Pressed before I even knew what Freshly Pressed meant.
Flash forward almost one year exactly — December 20, 2013 — and I get Freshly Pressed again for a short piece of fiction, Beginnings.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice …
I was going to write a boring old thank you blog, but it’s the end of the year, and we should have some fun, not bore ourselves to tears. So for all those who stuck with me through the year, let’s play a little game I call …
I have to be up in five hours, and I can’t sleep. The girl in the apartment upstairs is laughing. And rearranging furniture.
It reminds me three elephants having a cocktail party. But the girl’s cute, and I like to vacuum at 2 a.m., so I won’t complain.
I wish I could sleep. I’ve been playing games with myself lately, trying to make myself dream proper dreams. You know, dreams that seem full of meaning and profundity and make you feel like an adult with real Freudian problems, dreams that I could talk to Dr. Melfi about.
I don’t do video-only posts often, but there’s an exception to every rule. I’ve never seen something that so perfectly encapsulated this blog.
Watch. Get motivated. Repeat.
I’ve got a lot to get done this year, and there ain’t no time for screwing around. Pick up the pizza boxes, spray a little air freshener, and toss on some fresh undies. No joke, fellas. Tis some serious shit about to go down.
I’m 28. In 16 months I turn 30. Being an aimless, unaccomplished loser is expected in your 20s. It’s cute. It’s charming. Live it up. Make mistakes. Do stupid shit while you can still blame it on “misspent youth.”
But what’s the point of all that soul searching? To finally have your life together once you hit 30, right? So let’s play a little game, a pre-test if you will. Don’t worry. There’s no wrong answers. It’s just a guide.
It was quiet, not soundless, but worse — the sound of a half dozen people trying to be quiet — the kind of quiet that demands you scream, a primal scream that can only explode after a deep breath, deep as you can get, so deep that you can feel it go down into your toenails and spring back off the tip of your toes before you launch yourself upwards from bent knees and just belt, belt at the top of your lungs as your chair topples over and your coffee spills and you go and go until every ounce of air is gone and you’re empty inside, empty like the squeezed out juice pouch you put in a kid’s lunchbox each morning, nothing left but squished fingers.
I cleared my throat politely, nothing more.