Lord, me days are weird and divergent.
Suddenly I'm sloughed back to high school -- my senior year -- getting up at the crack of dawn, staggering through the day with glazed eyes and a caffeine drip, coming home and sleeping away the afternoon, then staying up half the night reading or writing or seeing people, going to readings or shows or whatever with a headache and a stuffy nose. I really have not lived like this in about six years. Funny how the headaches feel the same.
Saturday I went at a friend's suggestion to the Boston Bloggers' Summit for the new free paper, BostonNOW. I schmoozed more than I'm comfortable with (read: at all) and am 76% certain that my blog is not newsworthy, but the springrolls were good and a nice guy from NPR interviewed me. Out with pals that night I drank a beer I found on the sidewalk lying in the remains of its shattered brethren, last survivor in a fallen sixpack. Just another day of desperation.
Today I worked and took a nap. I think so often on these days I'm not a real artist. If I were a real artist I would never sleep, would not own a dog or anything for that matter or live in more than one room or work at Starbucks or drink microbrewed beer. If I were a real artist, I would be dirt fucking poor. Yes, so poor I own one bowl which doubles as a mug, triples as a plate, and on rough days, quadruples as a bedpan or vomit catch all. I really would never sleep. I would go to every reading every night, every big literary event, and since I'd have absolutely no money, I'd have to lie or fight or argue or blow my way in. Then I would come home to a stolen pack of cigarettes and a bottle of clandestinely obtained ritalin and write the Great American Novel, or the Really Good American Novel, or some crazy rambling brilliant epic poem, then as the sun rose I'd call someone up (doesn't matter who, really) and we'd talk forever about everything.
Then I would be an Artist.
I need to pick up some more bad habits.