Swear to God it’s only in New York where I will sweat incessantly while just standing there. Granted I’m lugging around what seems like fifty pounds of gear, but still. (This does nothing to dissuade me from the fact that my fat ass is too fat. Did have a breakthrough, though - went with a medium katsu instead of a Grand Slam, and didn’t feel bloated for once. Everything in moderation.)
While it annoys me to no end that I can only find Midtown Comics by accident, I still feel like I’m leaving this weekend better (floabt) than I came. Perhaps it’s just the point of vacations, but let’s face it - this was kindasorta a working vacation, both location-scouting possible future home neighborhoods (access) while kindasorta reaffirming my love for movies. While I’ll probably (that is like the second time I’ve misspelled probably) never get into movies full time, I’m okay with that, because I’m a writer, and a novelist by trade. Let’s repeat that: I am a novelist by trade. Or fuck it: I am a novelist. I love hearing that.
I am going to be starting my Camp NaNo novel tomorrow morning, because I’m actually jazzed about it. I no longer fear the word count - in fact, between my nightly pages and Camp, I’ll probably be hitting upwards of 3500 words a day/night (and part of me is thinking about going after the NaNo record in 750, just because). Oscillating between doing Since We Last Spoke and The Art of Killing Yourself - I’m slightly more inclined to do the former, because I’m still not sure what the latter is going to be (although part of writing is discovery), but I have the former’s basic outline in my head (and I kindasorta want to fold in that “They Never Came” fragment I have, which I suppose is a cheat, but fuck it - it’s my story). Still might end up doing Art anyway, even if - well, I might be able to summon the overly-depressive headspace at the center of Art, but a part of me really doesn’t WANT to go there right now.
Maybe (stupidly, perhaps) I’ve gained a (newfound?) sense of optimism regarding my future outlook, and Art is just so overwhelmingly nihilistic (it’s basically a book-length suicide note, for God’s sake), but in one sense it may be worth doing, especially if I can churn it out as fast as I can, just to purge all of those gawdawful depressive thoughts from my mind, however temporarily. It actually may be nice to wake up without wanting to die, for once.
So it’s decided - let’s do Art. Thirty days, sixty thousand words, and one long, rambling narrative about death and boredom and everything in between, because why not. I need to crystallize these thoughts anyway (ref: my Twitter subtitle), and all of my attempts to do it in philosophical form have largely been magnificent failures. Like wonderfully magnificent failures, which is my only (preferred?) kind of failure. Mediocrity is for assholes.
It actually feels good to laugh. Really, this weekend has been pretty good. Sure, could’ve gone better if I had gotten laid, but honestly what endeavor doesn’t get better with the addition of sex? (Even sex, ironically enough. Regular sex must be boss, but double sex - whatever that entails - must be twice as boss. Transitive property.) So that’s a nonstarter. Still, saw some good movies, picked up a George Duke LP that may probably be broken by the time that I get home, and again - my biggest gain this entire weekend was my desire to return to the NYC metro area growing stronger than ever, and a newfound sense to want to create, not out of any sense of compulsion or duty, but simply because (1) I actually like writing again, and (2) I am feeling arrogant enough to force my vision down the world’s shitty throat (damnit, that’s a good title too), like that one glasses-wearing Shyne-looking nigga that apparently superrapes his roommates or some shit like that. Not sure why THAT came to mind as an analogy, but here we are.
I need new shoes, which is a bitch because I just bought these. But I’m willing to admit that these shits are just a bit too snug, and my feet are going to be pregnant-woman swole and tore up in the morning. No matter, though - at least I didn’t tear my collective -CLs, which is good. And despite my best efforts, I got a shit-ton of exercise (or at least sweated through two shirts a day), so there’s that. Plus, nothing new broken, although the left big toe thing can’t be getting better - I imagine I’m gonna have it chopped off down the line on some Kunta Kinte shit, but as long as I get some running done in-between, it’s all good.
I suppose lastly, I’ve decided to pursue French chicks, and I totally blame Maniac for that. What was worse was that they paired her up with a nigga, and not like a foreign nigga, but what sounded like an American nigga (and probably the first and only nigga in the history of horror cinema that DIDN’T get killed, which is nuts because he SO deserved it), and how much fun would I have with a typical American white girl anyway? (Answer: Still lots.)
I feel exhausted, but a good exhausted (as opposed to a sweaty exhausted, which is a bitch - will admit that the only reason I’d move to the Left Coast is to get away from this godawful humidity). But such as it is. Slightly concerned but not overly concerned about Tuesday, and tomorrow I get my hair cut. (And assess the state of my finances. I really AM Frances Ha. Jesus.) Still, optimism on the horizon, and since I have not too much else, I’ll take it.