These are not stories.

I literally just closed my laptop cos I didn’t want to write.

Quesadilla number 3, vodka martini number 6, seemed like a great idea. I mean, I only had to get up in a few hours to go to work so who gives a shit.

I got the bottle of Skyy earlier today. It was the first bottle of vodka I bought in a while. I’ve been on a Jameson kick for a long time. I go back and forth between Jameson easy-ice and vodka martini extra-dirty-on-the-rocks. When I’m at home, I make them exactly how I want them.

Quesadilla number 3 was even better than number 2. Something about listening to jazz and listening to audiobooks and non-stop sipping on alcohol makes everything a little bit better. But you’re not an idiot. You know that. I know that. It’s why I do it. It’s why you do it. It’s why we all do it. At least I like to think that’s why we all do it.

I poured another. A single ice cube into my Garfield glass-mug thing that I inherited from Andy years ago. Vodka right up to the top of the cube. I think I’ve measured this to be a shot, at some point. But I’m pretty sure it’s a shot of vodka. Two green olives. I get the ones from Trader Joe’s, the queen’s something-or-other, with the red manzanilla or other in them, not the ones filled with garlic or other shit like that. A splash of olive juice, depending on my mood. Often it’s more than a splash. But when you’re on number *cough* sometimes it doesn’t even matter anymore.

So I’m inspired by the audiobook on my computer. And kind of just waltz around my tiny studio. Thinking maybe it’s time for bed but maybe it’s time to try writing again. I end up pouring myself a glass of water. Why do they call it pouring? I turned-on-the-tap-water myself a glass of water, pop my Lexapro that I haven’t had in a few days, and get back to the computer.

Cos when you want to be a writer, you gotta fucking write.

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