Of sci-fi stories and lazy Sunday.

I was walking out to the balcony of my house to smoke a cigarette when my phone rang at 2:30am. I froze dead in my tracks. "Fuck", I thought to myself, "who's dead this time?" It was Brandi calling to catch up, which was extremely welcomed as opposed to the death notice I thought I was about to receive. "Jimi and Tim just left", she said. My Oklahoma nostalgia kicked in when she said that, and I started to miss Oklahoma even more. I'm glad that she and Jimi made up and I got to see that before I left. I don't have to worry about my friends when I know they're all taking care of each other. But still, I miss my friends most of all today.


After catching up with Brandi on the phone, I realized the sound of my phone ringing had become a trigger for a panic attack. I had to reassure myself that every time my phone rang did not necessarily mean a signal for impending doom. This is a new year, its not 2009 anymore. Its time I start living like that.

I made a fire and watching it burn
Thought of the future
With one foot in the past
Now just how long will it last?
Have you no ambition?

Sunday was amazing here. The sun was out in full bloom and we left the windows and doors open all day. Adam and I spent a lot of time outside on the balcony. His new favorite pastime is throwing things off the side of the balcony and watching them break once they land in the front yard. Thankfully, Elmo's life was spared this Lazy Sunday. However, Patrick's shoe, a potted plant, and three Matchbox race cars were not so lucky. They're still laying outside on the front lawn.

I tried to work on the sci-fi story to send to that publication place, but I still can't think of anything to submit. I wanted to give up on it all together and tell them that sci-fi isn't really my thing. Then I started to think about how it may possibly be a test just to see if I am capable of writing anything. And I believe in myself; I know I can do it. I just need a fresh starting point.

Dear God, I hope I haven't caught writer's block. That's like having AIDS in the literary community.

Fuck.