Sent to you by terry via Google Reader:
via Every Day I Write The Book by ShesAllWrite on 1/15/12
Some of my tweets from yesterday morning:
"People on public transportation who have no concept of personal space make me feel stabby.
"A woman who carries a purse the size of a chunky toddler on a rush-hour
"Props to me for not choking anyone on the El this morning!"
"I almost couldn't claim this distinction. De-training was pretty cut-throat."
Here's what happened:
To my right was a woman with a giant bag on each arm; and to my left was a woman holding a rail, with her back facing the direction of the doors. I said, "excuse me" to her because I couldn't get around the bag lady to my right. She didn't respond, so I started making my way toward the door and in doing so, I made contact with her and with the bag belonging to the woman on my right. "What are you doing?" she snapped smugly.
"I'm getting off the train."
"Well, I'm getting off too."
"Oh. I said excuse me. I thought if you were getting off the train, you might have responded or turned to face the door."
"Go on, just go ahead of me."
"Okay, I will, but that doesn't make you classy."
*laughter from surrounding passengers*
Yeah, that was kind of bitchy of me, I know. Every now and then, CTA riders get their New York on I guess. The rest of my day was actually quite awesome, so I'm not even sure why I'm telling you about this trivial exchange (other than I haven't blogged in over a month, and this gives me occasion to do so). My job has taken over my life and my son has been home for the holidays, so every moment of my time has been spoken for for a while now.
Believe me, I have tried to carve out time to write, but I've been unsuccessful. I'm typing this at 2:25 AM, while doing a mountain of laundry for my son, on the night before the morning I have to take him back to school. It's shit writing, I'm sure, but I need to do it (apologies if this is MAJORLY boring, folks). I actually started writing about something else, but I'm too tired and too distracted to finish it.
Anyway, I need to write. And draw. And paint. I feel almost swollen and heavy with unexpressed ideas and images. It's uncomfortable and frustrating. I trust this is temporary. It's temporary, right?
Well, that's it. I'm too tired to write anything insightful or interesting--I just wanted to dispel rumors that I had run off and joined the French Foreign Legion or forgotten the English language. Neither are true.
I'll keep fighting for time to create.