As my weekend approaches, a realization strikes that the typewriter is a trap. A devil’s deal revealed during times of trouble in the depths of the underworld. An appealing coffin full of constrictive ghosts. Nails banging silence into my soul. Suffocation by congestion of the self.

“A hundred dollars is a lot of money.” I tell Musette.

She is sitting on the toilet.

What we really need right now is an air conditioner.

“And it’s like you said, what difference does it make? The important thing is the writing.”

I can see it fading away. The door open in the underworld but not for long. An exotic weapon that I don’t have the strength to possess. How long have any of us been able to go without ello? God, I’ve always hated that name. But it’s more than that, just like how writing is more than a typewriter. The true social network is that we are all that matters, and I don’t even actually care that much about any of you.

But if I leave now, it is giving up. It’s not rising above. You’ve got to face your challenges. That’s what my dad always said. And this is father’s day. He didn’t really say that, but my fictional archetype of the father I’ve always wanted just did.

“Take ‘em as they come, son. It’s not sado-masochism, but it may be the development of tough skin.”

“You’re right, dad. I can’t leave now even though I want to.”



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