Gasping

It's been brought to my attention that I'm spending a great deal more time lately talking about money, much like a goldfish gulping for water.

It hasn't always been this way. In fact, I can't recall ever talking about money before, never in my life. I've never felt I had enough, but always managed to make it through, so I decided early on in life that it was never as big a deal as I thought.

Also, lacking certain popular genes, dining room sets and bedspreads with dust ruffles have never been a priority in my life. I needed a refrigerator when I first moved out, so I eventually got one after months with an ice chest. In fact, had Cesar not offered his mother's old one, I would have waited for years.

That refrigerator, by the way, was wonderful. The interior was pastel green and yellow, and it had been hand painted pink on the outside. Quite colorful. Also, within a month, the freezer would accumulate so much frost it could scarcely hold one pizza. Oh, how I enjoyed chipping away at the frost! Great huge chunks, thundering off.

That one lasted years, until I got one with an automatic ice maker in a rigged bidding contest. What I liked about that later model was the ice cubes it produced. They were small, the size of my thumbnail. What I disliked was its eventual failure, when it would dump trays full of water into the ice cube bin. Oh, how I dreaded hearing it recycle ten minutes after it had last emptied a load.

My first coffee table was a closet door I'd removed from my parent's home. It sat on wooden crates I'd taken from the liquor store I worked at. It never occurred to me (really!) that anyone would look askance at it. It served my purposes, and I was fortunate enough to be surrounded by people who never held my lifestyle against me.

Now, of course, I worry about money, still. Nothing I do generates any, and I have yet to swallow my pride sufficient to admit I'm wrong and do what everyone else does. It's all my fault, and I know what to do.

There's nothing special about me.



I've gotten some feedback about TRE and, of course, am grateful. The baby kicking incident, again (still?), is unsatisfactory. One would think that, by now, I'd just give it up. Find some entirely different arc for the story, drop my pretences, and just start the whole thing over.

I need to get over myself, get passed my ideas, and give up what I've invested so far. Yes, there's some psychological thing about what we've spent time on having disproportionate, exhalted worth and value, and maybe that's what's stopping me. Would it be an admission of failure to just leave TRE alone, now and forever?

It may be best to move on.

I don't know if Kicker is any good, still see Big Train Show as mostly a disappointment, and may just need to put all this writing stuff to the side for awhile. I had dreams of talent, but so do most people. Wanting ain't having.

I'm convinced I can still craft a great sentence, it's just when putting them together that I forget all I've learned. I enjoy writing, but I think I need to be realistic and put it in the "hobby" category.