last night james ordered a 5 year moratorium be placed on any writing i do that is in any way related to my ex girlfriend. as he puts it, when i write about her, i degenerate into trash-romance crap. and we both know that i don't want to end up a middle-aged, washed-up, would-be writer pissed that Harlequin never picked up her mediocre pulp fiction, waiting tables late-night at a Bickford's somewhere off route 495, getting slapped on the ass by young gay men who think it's funny. or old gay men, considering james would be there to taunt me.
so, he set up a document on my computer aptly titled "vomit bucket". this is the only place into which i shall purge myself of her and all things related to her. it has been decried. that boy maybe a smart-assed economic drain on me, but he knows shit.
of course, us talking about her had me dreaming all kinds of crazy, stressful crap last night. confirmation that i need to do what ever it takes to get her out of my system.
here's to better writing by way of the vomit bucket.
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