1730 | so you are a micro-writer she said |

XMAS EVE - EVE. The Bourgeoisie.

i mean i think i am you replied. i mean. i'm not really sure if there is such a thing as a micro-writer but if there is then yeah. totally. i'm a micro-writer.

she smiled and you smiled and then you took a sip of your terrible tasting pint. seconds passed while she waited for an explanation you could not produce. in your head you were wishing her question away while the upfront you kept waiting fo rher to lookoff so you could check out her titties but she never did maybe
she was on to you eye

of the tiger was playing

you must fight just to keep them alllive.

her eyes [yup blue] were all up in your bizness. for like centuries and shit. finally like a muse she cleared her throat and opened her trust fund mouth. so like what do you micro-write?

she smiled and you smiled. you tried to make your smile self-depreciating or at least that is wahtyouthought in your mind when you attempted the self-depreciating smile. in fact, you placed yourself in the roll of a casual observer to see how the self-depreciating smile looked. like if you pulled it off or not. you cast yourself as a stranger. a passerby. and finally an overweight graybeardedman like the guy in the hair plugs commercial that runs all nite every nite while you sleep with your tv on.

blue flickering images blah blah blah. commercialism masturbation. fortunately tho

you stop. man.

the old curse.

you write when you are not writing. same goes for the opposite.

lots of time when you write you do not write. in fact.

you do not do anything at all.

yeah so she is sitting there and she is someone's cousin from somewhere. her teeth are white and her skin is [yawn] smooth and you think to yourself that she prolly has a tight pussy. like a super-tight pussy.

like a barbie. not like a real woman. not with smells and manias and stepparents and abortions and DUIs and dry skin and jabberjaws and ears dead from lifetimes of lies told by the dicks that filled up her pussy before yours did

dude.

[you exhale. there is an explosion outside and the world ends.]

hey mr. micro-writer. she is snapping her fingers in front of your face and smiling. are you in there? how bout we switch to champagne?

you look down at your left hand. your beer is warm and disgusting.

you shrug. you put on your nonchalant face and observe it from all angles. someone's cousin is smiling at you again. she has flown a very long way to visit someone you barely know. champagne it is you say. smiles everyone smiles.

your throat tastes sour.

when the dust clears
you are going to have to call your mother again for money.

in a few months you will be forty.

you have three hundred dollars in the bank.

okay you say. micro-writing takes place on little teeny tiny pieces of paper. you hold your index finger very close to your thumb.

she busts out laughing. oh she says. you are soooo funny.

the guy sitting next to you answers his phone. he goes hey dude. what's up.