After I got home from doing other more important things (like working for much longer than felt right for a Friday and not, after all, getting to feed those homeless people), I went to Starbucks to write. I’ve felt the muse a lot lately, but tonight I began working on an idea I’ve felt developing in the back of my head for a while.

It’s the most depressing story I’ve ever written; even more depressing than some of the stories I have lived. What shocked me most is when I began to read it over to begin honing it down, I was affected by the words far more than I am accustomed. Who knows what it was, but as I sat there reading the memoirs of a person I had invented, I started crying in Starbucks, right there in the corner of the room with my laptop. Not bawling, mind you, but I’m sure I looked like a gigantic emo faggot.

But I strangely don’t care. And when you got on the GO bus, I almost started again; I don’t even know where you went. There wasn’t time to find out.

Tags: faggotry, personal