II
Russia struck a power facility in Ukraine overnight. They sent hundreds of drones into the country. Most of them were decoys to confuse Ukraine’s air defenses. That’s one way to force them to the negotiating table. Winter is coming, and if they can knock out Ukraine’s heat and electricity and create scores of desperate families and crying babies . . . we’ll see how long Zelenskyy keeps fighting. War, like Winter, is cold.
Winter is coming. I felt it when I stepped outside today without a sweater. I should’ve known because it starts getting cold in September. Which means the Carolina Classic Fair is coming. It used to be the Dixie Classic Fair until they changed it. Dixie is racist. I also know the fair is coming because I saw it on an Instagram reel. Correction: I saw it on an Instagram reel that she liked. I was under the “Friends” tab.
I used to love Friends. I haven’t watched the show in forever, but it was one of three shows I always played in the background because of the homey feeling it gave me. It was a comfort show. Now as far as comfort shows go, no show gives me that feeling like The Big Bang Theory. I watched the show so much it drove me to buy a set of Batman comics that I never finished reading but still have. In fact, I think I might read a couple today. Now that I think about it, I think she likes comic books.
Batman was always my favorite superhero. He’s a no-nonsense type of guy and I aspire to be that. Stoic and all business. Actually, scratch the comic book reading—that’s nonsense. I’ll write and go to the gym afterwards and eat a power-packed lunch. You’ve got to earn that cowl, bitch. Serious. That’s what black is. Like her.
Writing is hard. It requires discipline. A lot of it. And when you get the discipline down, you still have to contend with inspiration and shit. Which is why I’ve quit smoking. My third week now. Weed kills my inspiration, and I need all of it if I’m to realize what I know I’m meant to do. I bought a book of short stories—flash fiction—to help with that and hopefully end the longest streak of writer’s block I’ve ever endured. I think it’s working. Working the way my overactive mind is. Like a well-oiled machine that never stops. An overactive mind is better than an idle one. Working, working, working, pumping one random thought after another, non-stop, regardless of productivity. Whatever to keep my mind from running to that girl and her almond skin and the beautiful white stain in the backseat of my car.
