Aug the Thirteenth
It is today, a veritable twenty-four hours after I committed both Big Mistake Numbers One and Two, that I’ve committed Big Mistake Number Three. I had every intention of just moving on, Journal, I was ready to hit this blank page and write anew, but then I gave into temptation and read the entry I made yesterday. Then I read it a second time and proceeded to think like I was a statue resting its chin on its fist. Now I’ve started writing, obviously, and I completely forget what I was going to say when I first sat down.
I suppose I should start with an explanation, and I won’t play coy, I’m fully aware that this explanation is more for me than it is for you, Journal. In fact, me addressing you as Journal in and of itself is something I do more for me than for you. If I was crazy enough to think you’re alive – hell, even if I was pretending you were alive with the knowledge that you’re not – I wouldn’t say your name so many times every single entry. I can’t stand folks like that, who say your name a trillion times between the moment they open their mouth and the eventuality when they finally close it. “Hey Albey, what are you doing, Albey? Albey, do you even know what’s going on, Albey? Like, really Albey? Really? Albey? Sidney “Albey” Blake? Hello? Why did you stop talking to me, Albey?” Christ, save me the fucking aneurysm. No, I just do it so I don’t feel like I’m sitting by myself as I psychotically scribble symbols onto this blank page for minutes and occasionally hours on end.
As for the explanation, well… Journal, you have now been let in on the secret that’s been kept by all the journals I had during college: you are now aware of How Albey Gets When He Doesn’t Get To Smoke His Weed. That’s how my old friend group put it, at least. Wan’a know how I know that? A group message that I wasn’t meant to receive.
So the guys and gals I chilled with had a group chat that included me (that rarely, if ever, got used) and a second group chat that was only for them. One day someone sent a text to the group that included me about if they should bring weed to a party and somebody else said “Definitely, you know how Albey gets when he doesn’t get to smoke his weed.” So, being the Albey in question – an Albey who had yet to smoke his weed that day, too – I asked, perfectly reasonably, “How does Albey get when he doesn’t get to smoke his weed, then?”
I didn’t get an answer. The party got canceled, too, right at the last minute, and somehow during the fifteen seconds it took me to read and reply to the “party’s canceled” text, all of my friends magickly made other plans that night and I got to sit alone and smoke my weed to lofi like a good little Albey. We all came together and smoked the next day and nobody mentioned it, they just acted like it didn’t happen, and so did I. Life went on.
But it did happen, and I doubt that time was the first time something of that caliber went down. And now I’m not in college anymore, and all of them still are. They’re probably all laughing about it right now, too. “Yo, you remember that Sidney kid who made us all call him Albey? What an obnoxious, idiotic fuckin’ junkie. How sad. It’s no wonder he flunked out.”
I need to take a break from this, hold on.
… … …
All right, I smoked a little. Well, a little more. I uh… fuck it, you know what I’m about, Journal, and so do I. Anyway, honestly, the thing that bothers me about the thing with my college friends is the fact that, while they obviously said a great many things to one another about Albey and How Albey Gets When He Doesn’t Get To Smoke His Weed, they never said anything to me. They never said shit to me about it, not a single word, Journal. Not so much as a single word. I don’t blame them, though – I told them to call me a name, so I became a name. Now it’s all that I understand, and that’s word to Yelawolf.
…I was listening to Love Story earlier, I have Ball and Chain stuck in my head. It’s not the best song on there (Love Story, the titular track, obviously is), but it always hits me the hardest. I don’t know why. It’s like… oh fuck, what’s that interlude called? From Wrek’s The Rooftops Mixtape, um… If You Wake Up! I had to look that up to remember it, oof. Wrek would be ashamed. Quick note to self: apparently there’s an extended version of If You Wake Up with a verse on it. Should find that at some point. Or at least liste–… hold on.
… … …
All right, found it on YouTube. It’s dope as all hell, yes Wrekonize! You buried gold and I just found it seven years later and it’s still shining just as bright as it was when you put it in the ground. ‘Man, I love creativity. That’ll be me someday, like, when I get to writing my poetry I’m not going to stop no matter how small my audience is. Even if I don’t have an audience, fuck it. I’m just go’n’a keep writing and creating and one day, someone will stumble across some of my old shit and be like, “Woah, this dude’s done so much! Who is this ‘man?” And that ‘man will be me. And it will be amazing.
That’s all once I start writing my Mad Poetry, though, which will be… huh, never thought about that, actually. I suppose there’s no better time to start than the present, but… actually, yeah, no buts. The present is the best time to start a project, so long as you don’t already have a project going. Which isn’t the case for me.
SO, I’m officially decreeing this right now: starting on the day (or perhaps the day after, if I finish TTC after the sun goes down) I finish The True Commons, I will begin writing my Mad Poetry. That’s it, that’s that, that’s just what it is. Bam.
Speaking of which, that’s (at least part of) what I was originally going to write. Journal, I did not gather enough rocks. I built about a quarter of the border wall today and I used over half of my rock pile… also, I may have exaggerated when I said the pile was taller than I am. Look, I’m not going to lie, gathering and then converting raw rocks into a fashionable wall is not quite as easy in real life as it is in video games. Like, nowhere near as easy. I thought I might finish today, tomorrow at the latest, but I think there’s a solid chance I’ll be working on this for at least the rest of the week… but, considering how today is Thursday, that’s not all that bad.
… … …
I don’t know how to close this. I feel bad about how angry I was yesterday, like, I feel as though I should apologize, which is ridiculous… but still. I’m sorry, both to you, Journal, and to myself, for allowing my rage to overtake me like that. Just rough, ‘man. I could have written anything, but that’s what came out. It didn’t even rhyme, either. Not my best work at all. Not by far.
But that about does it, I think. If I had some world-shifting philosophical stuff stored up in my head that I wanted to write down today, it’s long gone now. Oh well. The universe is perfect, everything is where it is meant to be at all times.
Thank you, Journal. ‘Preciate ya. Good sleeps and good dreams~
Hello Commons, this has been the next journal entry from Untitled Bigfoot Project, a novel about a writer who writes a novel about bigfoot.
Untitled Bigfoot Project is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.
Untitled Bigfoot Project is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
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If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. Be well Commons~