Oct the Seventh
I didn’t write as much today as I wrote yesterday, but Journal, I just finished typing up some real killer shit. I didn’t go back to reread it – I refuse to, not until the whole thing is done – but goddamn am I excited to do so. Honestly, thank god I found this new passion of mine. Thank fucking god. I don’t know what the hell I’d be doing without it. I wouldn’t have Tori, that’s for sure. Probably wouldn’t have my friends, either, because I’d still be sitting around smoking pot all day and getting lost in the woods behind my house. Hell, I’d probably consider it my parents’ house, too, as if my living here was an inconvenient and unacceptable thing, a thing worthy of shame and self-loathing and nothing else.
Yikes, could you imagine?
Speaking of my parents, though, my mom came up to my room the other day and said she wanted to talk to me. Said that her and my dad were a little worried that since I haven’t been talking to them as much lately and that I’m spending so much time away from–… essentially, they’re afraid that I’m distancing myself, or something like that. I told her no, it’s just that I’m working really hard on this book and that things are going well with Tori so I’m inclined to spend a lot of time with her and yadda yadda yadda. I told her that her and dad were always really good parents, and you know what, Journal? They were.
I’ve heard some horror stories about parents around here. Logger’s Pond is a small backwoods town where the cops are all buddy-buddy with the wealthy folks and the politicians are super corrupt. It’s place where anything can happen, where anything does happen, and a whole lot of what happens is really dark. But my parents didn’t let me get exposed to that. When other kids were getting into drugs and sleeping around with each other and shit when I was a kid (well, when I was younger; the drugs and sex didn’t really start until around seventh or eighth grade, whenever folks started turning thirteen), me and my friends were exploring the woods and telling musical stories about a fictional world that exists in my head. My parents never screamed at me, never hit me, never punished me for “talking back” or any of that bullshit, never forced me to visit weird relatives who were always super rude to them in front of me, they never woke me up in the morning by screaming at each other at the top of their lungs threatening to get a divorce or burn the house down or pick up and move across the country, I never had to console my weeping mother ten minutes before getting on the bus to school in the morning, I never had my dad threaten to beat the shit out of my friends, I never had to deal with the craziness inherent in growing up around a bunch of hillbillies who never grew up themselves. I had a mom and dad who left their work at work and let our family be a family; my parents were good parents, my parents tried their best for me, and that’s all a parent has to do. And that’s exactly what I told her. Not all of that shit, obviously, I’m just riffing now, but the last part. They tried their best and I know it, and they should know it too.
Journal, my parents taught me to be a good human by showing me how to be a good human instead of giving me the exact picture of what I don’t want to be and forcing me to stare at it, then acting like I’m the source of the problem when I didn’t want to look anymore, and it feels really, really good to be able to write that honestly. Like, really, REALLY good. Some of the shit I heard about growing up… honestly, it’s a miracle more kids in this town didn’t kill themselves, whether intentionally or accidentally by drinking too much or snorting the wrong shit or cutting themselves too deep or going to swallow just a few pills then tipping the bottle all the way back at the last minute – literally the last minute, Christ. Shit, that might even have been me if my birth parents decided not to give me up. I could be dead or in jail right now, but I’m not, because I was adopted by a pair human beings who were ready to be parents, and I am so, so grateful for that.
When my book is done, Ashley and Jeremy are going to be the first ones to get copies. Without a doubt. The book wouldn’t exist without them – yes, I know, it doesn’t exist yet, but still, let a ‘man riff – and for that, they deserve signed copies. Who knows, maybe they’ll even be worth something someday.
Who knows, maybe I’ll even be worth something someday. Time will tell, as it does with all things, and the wheel of ka shall spin on and on, just as it always has.
… … …
Say thankya, Jounrnal. ‘Preciate ya. Long days and pleasant nights~
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.
If you like Untitled Bigfoot Project and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here OR you can buy the ebook for even cheaper here.
If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. Be well Commons~