i can't operate
Sleep is avoiding me.I am stuck waiting for it to swing through and scoop me up. My brain starts to chug around and over itself.
I stretch my arms out above me and make designs and animals with my fingers. I could write. I could get up and write.
My bed is an open book, and I am tangled in the pages, slowly flailing my arms to amuse myself. I can't operate on four hours of sleep.
Can't operate.
Can top her eight.
Can't hopper eight.
Can't hop a rate.
I get a beer from the fridge and open it with the claw end of a hammer, because I don't have an opener. It tastes like piss. Some fool imported this beer from England, shipping it all the way to Atlanta, just to have it taste like piss.
It also smells bad, but I realise I am standing over the garbage can, where the casualties of a small army of tangerines lay buried haphazardly. I am on a tangerine kick.
I am an even bigger fool for opening this pissbeer with a hammer and drinking it. On the other hand, I did get those tangerines, in the end.
I'm a writer. I'm an artist.
I'm a douchebag.
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