quite a few times she had to ask him why he was so shy
He thought it was just normal to be shy on a first date no matter how many other dates you've been on with other girls
He was afraid of getting too deep into relationships, mainly because girls didn't like guys who still lived with their parents
He lived with his father who worked as a butcher His clothes were always stained by blood and smelled of salt and iron but worst of all was that he was drunk more often than not
About thirty minutes into the date his phone rang and he excused himself to answer. It was his father
"Listen buddy. I kinda need your help."
"Dad, I kinda need you to understand that I can't save your ass every time you get in trouble thanks to your drinking. I'm busy right now."
"Oh? Too busy to help your old man?"
"Bye."
"No, no, no, wait! Listen. It's just a simple thing this time. You just have to tell the police that your father is a butcher and that the eyeball they found in his rectum belongs to a pig and not a human being, okay?"
"Dad, what the fuck?"
"Please!"
He hung up walked back to the table sat down smiled
"Problems?" his date asked.
"No, no. My father asked for a ride. I told him I can't right now. It's okay though. Nothing urgent or important."
"Father, huh? Must be nice having one."
"Oh, you don't…?"
She smiled. "Nevermind that. But anyway, speaking of fathers, you think you'll be a good one?"
"Huh?"
"Cuz I surely won't be the best mother. See, I just found out days ago that my ex-boyfriend got me pregnant. You think you'll be a good daddy?"
he downs the second bottle of wine and then curses the beer for not tasting as good
the rectangular desk before him looks round now and his chair grows wheels
all the insects in the apartment crawl under the clock on the wall and spin the hands backwards
lots of things are happening but the story before him doesn’t write itself The paper is still pale the pen still frozen The next word will never come out let alone the next line
He leans back and the demon calls from the other side of the window and tells him to hurry up
“That’s not how writing works,” he whispers back
But he doesn’t know how it works anymore
So he just stands and walks to the window opens it and answers the call
"It's not that it was the worst but it was very bad," the old man said. "I wasn't hanging but the noose was so thick around my frail neck. I was nine. And the forest was dark. Night. And holding me, they made my old man dig a deep hole. He did as they said to buy my freedom. They untied me then and put the rope around my old man's arms and legs and threw him in the hole and covered him up with dirt. They didn't make me watch. But I did. I wanted to photograph their faces with my eyes to burn their smirks under my eyelids. Well, the saddest thing about it all is that they died, all of them were caught and condemned to death before I was old enough or strong enough to hunt down and kill them myself. The greatest regret of my life. The world, you see, has no true justice It never had. You see, young man, that's why I can never be a child of God. He wants us all to forgive. I can't. Don't want. Will not. Ever. So instead of going to church I pass out in bars like this one. It's been my favorite lately And you're my only friend, young man. You're the only one weird enough to listen to this old, demented fool's stories."
"I'll always listen," I said. "Here, how about another drink?"
"Another drink, sure. Thanks. But I'm afraid you won't be listening to these stories for long. I'm going away, young man."
"Where?"
"Well, to court first and then definitely to prison."
"To prison at your age? What did you do?"
The old man smiled a toothless smile. "Old as I am, I used to have front teeth, you know? Well, the reason I no longer have them... I bit a child's ear off. It was his face. It reminded me of them. Belonged to the same race. So I figured... you know, maybe he was one of their descendants. It was the least I could do. All I could do... I told you I'm crazy. I told everyone."
he owned one pair of shoes four pairs of socks one pair of pants a tank top two t-shirts and a sweatshirt
he’d lost the cap in his last dice game.
“well, hell, doesn’t matter, broke the spell,” he chanted, “therefore somehow, someway luck is gonna come my way and why not here, now, today?”
the dreams haven’t left the dreams were still in him, in his soul ready to explode
47 manuscripts: 14 novels, 7 novellas, and 26 short stories he carried in his pack along with his socks his other t-shirt a knife six pens he stole from the library where he wrote a candy bar and an old dull razor
he wasn’t so young anymore the beard and gray hairs made him look much older surely the hunger had affected that as well
but it didn’t matter he was going to make it one day, some day soon
Daydreaming as a profession 