And an offer.  $15 per hour.  IS that what I’m worth?  I’m fed up, and I can’t take anymore of the dismissal, and the reduction, and the interviews, and the applying.. I’m hiring mySelf, and I’ve said that before, but I’m changing, tonight, doing what I want, curing mySelf of this regularity and boredom.  Would have another beer, but I’m saving it for another time, for the Road.. may write at 3rd Street tomorrow, or somewhere else I can observe characters, other lives, and just record.. indulge in whatever, whomever I want.  The objective: escape.. through fiction.  Have to wake early tomorrow, start more than early on something.. anything.. not necessarily project focused, but more on the process, the writing.. the characters.  Will I run as I aimed?  I doubt it, as tonight I’m too very much fixated on the writing.  I can run another day, but if I don’t make progress on a MS tomorrow, then that potential advance will be lost.  So the pages deserve more attentions, immediate attention.. MORE immediate attention and address.  I don’t want to die never having seen the Road.  That would be defeat, that would be failure, and I won’t be a failed writer, I’m not a failed writer, and I never will be.

And the location, any location, any setting, a scene and character to itself: a subject, something for standalone submission, to my own publishing company.  You should read this offer letter, it’s humorous.. but I won’t go on about it.  I’m already bored, after being insulted.  $15 an hour, me.. wow, thanks.  Already know where I’m going tomorrow to write, to plan tomorrow night’s lecture.  And poems.  What if I surprise mySelf, over lunch, a couple afternoon beers, finally get what I want.. in one day!  It can happen, right?  I’m fed up, completely, utterly.. I don’t need another entity, 2B FREE!  Time for some sparkling water, sip it slow, hydrate, percolate…

Drinking this sparkling lemon water like it’s scotch.  I don’t drink scotch.  I never have– well, that’s not completely true.. I had some at that 2006 wedding, my sister-in-law’s, in Virginia.  I hated it, the scotch.. like hell vintage elbowing and clawing its way through my orbit.  Tomorrow, I’m writing in the Comp Book, and I’ll sip like I’m on the Road, at whatever pub or bar or restaurant I find mySelf at.  And I’m going there, wherever ‘there’ is, for material.. to add to the book, the next one, after the poetry chap.  Adding more money to the petty cash.. what I’ll use for my chapbooks.  What’s in Schwab is for MY wine label.  At least that’s the now-plan…

I haven’t given up on wine, nor am I dismissing it, but everything has to be on MY terms.. everything.. even the quick stills I snap at the estate…