Wrote an essay, just over 1050 words. Read the writings from an old family friend. Need to use my journal, diary, more. More free writing, and I mean REALLY free writing.
Emma waking up mom upstairs, me sneezing. These fucking allergies… Jackie losing his shit, burping the alphabet in the kitchen.
Need to use this docu as I meant to, as a typed journal…. That fly, still flying against the window. Doesn’t he get it? He’s fucked.
Consolidating everything… targeting the New Yorker. Will write alongside Sedaris and whomever else. What I have myself convinced of. Thanks to the quarantine, I’m usefully pissed off. Writing with more containment, and singularity, producing singular pieces and stories…
Emma talking saying she has longer hair than Jack… feel like I’m in the Emma league, with my 80s/George Michael in the Wam-era-ish hair. Oh, ‘Wam’ has an ‘h’. OR maybe like that one actor… Mel Gibson, in the first Lethal Weapon. I saw some self-righteous post the other day on Facebook about people saying all they want is a haircut.
Enjoy your self-anointment, you whale dick… I WANT A HAIRCUT.