Lot 49

I was at a rather standard cafe today waiting for my car to be fixed. I had quite a bit of time to kill so I pulled out a book to read and order a coffee and a piece of apple pie. I felt like an early Gen-X’er that was really into Bukowski for a moment, as if I should be writing mediocre poetry into a moleskine. I began to prepare my coffee, one sugar and a plop of cream. The waitress I had was rather nice and projected the kind of character you would only get from a truly good person. I ascertained that she was an immigrant from her accented English and some chit chat she had with one of the other customers about coffee in her country. The unfortunate thing is that this woman was less than attractive. Actually I’m putting that rather nicely but you get the idea. I began to wonder in between bites of my pie if she didn’t get as much in tips as a pretty waitress would. If I had to guess I would say no but this person’s demeanor and attitude were so good that after the initial shock of her appearance she was ra

I've been beating myself up over the years for NOT producing enough, for not making enough. For not getting enough out. What ever that means Ironically I'm sitting in a room filled with outs. There are paintings on the walls, papers on the desk. Music on the computer. A myriad of outs and external expressions of myself. I keep telling myself I should write, because I don't write enough. That I need to finish this novel that I've been working on for the better part of three years. I always say its three years, I've been saying its three years for about three years now. You can do the math. Then I came to realize that, I've been writing quite a lot over the years. I went through and looked it all up. short story after short story, poem after poem and blog post and little scribbles here and there. All of which amounts to quite a bit of work. quite a bit of writing and i wanted to express it and get it out there a little bit differently. People can read a lot of this stuff, some of its published and