I've been spending a lot of quality time in rooms with writers lately. I don't know any of them, it's not that sort of room. In fact, I'm with them right now. Tee hee. None of them know I'm typing away about their focused, frozen faces! Ha ha! You all look so funny! Making your serious writer pouts..."I'm writing the next Graham Greene," "I'm like Dave Eggers, sort of!" "I'm a blogger! I'm mocking everybody else!" Haha. Silly.
We're all plugged in, and wearing headphones so we can pretend like none of us actually exist together in this big, fast city. We search out this perfect room, full of other people who wheeze big sighs and drink too much overpriced coffee and store odd wi-fi passwords like baseball cards and won't judge our frizzed, unwashed hair and chunky glasses. Does it make me a hipster, just being here? I do have holes in my jeans. And my bra strap is showing. I don't have an iphone. Crap. No, I'm just regular poor.
This is my warmup, by the way. I think that makes me more writerly. I mean, there had to be a reason they always made us do this in high school, right? Keep a notebook of the five minute warmup exercises, one sentence topics. No one reads them but you.
The reason I post it online, for any old weirdo to read (not that I'm calling you weird, but you could be. I don't really care. I didn't wash my hair.) rather than storing them faithfully in a blue notebook to lodge in a drawer in my closet, is because I'm lazy. It's totally true. My hand will hurt. I'll not care. I'll not use periods. I'll start skipping the bothersome letters, like "s" and "g". At least my imaginary internet audience might have standards. You make me write better. (And if I wasn't such a serious, and diligent author, I'd insert a smiley face right there, just to prove to you that I love writing this shit for you.) (But I won't. Because I'm serious about this shit.)
Oh, fuck it.