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All content copyright 2010 by Chelsea Biondolillo. Seriously.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

365 days of being a writer: day 22

My chest feels abraded. Like a skinned knee is inside my lungs. Or I have somehow skinned my lungs? What's really bizarro-world is that the whole sensation leaves me craving a cigar like crazy. All day I imagined cherry, rum, and almond flavored blends. Puffing. Letting the smoke roil around in my mouth.

There was that one time, when the week couldn't get any worse, and then it did: I locked myself in my bathroom, because there were people in my house and I sat all the way down and howled, and then I kicked my feet and punched at the floor, impotent. Twenty minutes later, I walked downstairs, out the door. I sat in my front yard and smoked two cigars in the rain.

Not that today was anything like that day. Today I was just coated with a bit of a crummy-gummy glaze. I had to take the bus, as my car is broken, again. I was able to hide out in my office. But there was the same feeling of impotence to the day, maybe. I couldn't perform.

I wrote for work, a blog about squash. The plan was to come home and write 700 words about Diane Arbus--in the hopes of getting this paying gig. But I can't right now. It was really all I could do to get groceries and eat an actual dinner. Please send citrus juice. Tomorrow will be better.

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