Yesterday's goofing around made me realize three very important things:
1) It is fun to write a Milleresque narrative. It's all gritty and exaggerated and colorful and abusive to the English Language. Makes you feel powerful.
2) When I start to have fun and really put myself into writing, I get compared to Jack Kerouac and told I'm writing beat poetry. I must read some actual Kerouac and see what this means. Maybe I'm some sort of throwback to the Beat Generation. (What's weird is I think that's my father's generation -- Mama's a Boomer, but he's quite a bit older than her.)
3) That fucking cat came right out of a Frank Miller book. He whines, he scratches my carpet, he scratches my long-boxes, he scratches my shortboxes, he scratches my arms and waits while I walk to the bathroom and back until he gets a good chance to lunge at me and bite my thigh (he only does this when I'm not dressed yet, so that he gets the flesh and draws blood). He gets annoyed whenever I change anything in the apartment. He sits in my chair. He sleeps on my bed. He stinks up the place. He lies in my footpath. He's sleeping on top of my monitor right now, dangling his damned tail in front of the screen. He does everything he can to inconvenience me.
And when he's not inconveniencing me, he's sitting somewhere and staring at me, trying to intimidate me.
That furry bastard is out to get me.
If I disappear, you'll all know why.