...by a neighbor who announced that she had just bought a bottle of Patron, which is very near the best of Mexico's fermented cactus juice beverages.
Six healthy shots later, I abandoned all though of continuing with my article. I did, however, managed to turn out 997 words before I hung it up, which leaves roughly 500 to go. Piece o' cake. I can do that in the morning.
Besides, the article was continuing to weird me out. Too many shadows floating into it, too many personal references I had to kill before they got woven into the fabric and rhythm of the piece.
This is what happens to unskilled writers (like me): they start at the beginning and just throw in anything they think fits. And they then hope a closing point eventually comes and they can wrap up the whole mess before someone turns out the lights.
It's a stop-me-before-I-kill-again kind of thing.
So now I'm writing this.
I can think of maybe six places I'd rather be right now, and one (or maybe two) people I'd rather be at one of those places with. But I'm not.
And I won't be in the morning, when I will get an attack of the guilts and sit down to another day of cranking out the ol' words when I'd rather be elsewhere.
Is anyone still reading this?
I feel like maybe the most boring person in the known universe.
No, I know I'm not. But too few others know it.
How many times to I get to see what might be on the other side of the door without actually being let in?
Life ain't fair, Jim.
15 hours ago