Turns out THIS is Ernest Hemingway. Brilliant. And also dead.
Two months. It's been over two months since my last post. You know, the one where I said that, once I got moved and settled into my new place (post-divorce), I'd be writing more consistently. (That sound you hear is me, choking on irony.) I have not been writing - but I don't want you to get the impression I've been idle, either. Here, then, is a list of things I know I have done in the past two months, that have kept me from my own blog:
*I was asleep. Not for two whole months. That's a coma, and comas are not funny. (I mean, maybe they could be a little funny - as long as they're not happening to you.)
*I had to vacuum the apartment. Like, a lot.
*Laundry. Because dingy underwear stifles creativity.
*I was drunk. Again, not for two whole months. That really would be like Hemingway, but the awesomeness of that would probably be outweighed by the tragicness of it. And the violent puking.
*I had to come off my meds. Not because they were no longer needed, necessarily. But because they are really fucking expensive. I did, however, buy a My First Super Science Junior Chemistry Set, and the first full season of Breaking Bad on DVD. So, I reckon I'm gonna have the whole medication issue handled pretty damn quick.
And now you know why I'm not Hemingway. That motherfucker could write no matter what was happening around him. Or to him. You know, like... World War I. And living in Paris. And the Spanish Civil War. And being on safari in Africa, where he survived two consecutive plane crashes, and was probably writing about it while the aircraft was plunging towards the ground. He literally drank so much that a writer named Phillip Greene wrote a book called "To Have and Have Another," which was a book dedicated solely to Hemingway's alcohol habits. He was spied on by J. Edgar Hoover. Married and divorced four times. Hypertensive. Was damn near gored by a bull.
But the sonofabitch kept on writing.
I truly believed that, having been away from this space for two months, I would find it dusty, moldy, and unkempt from lack of use. But I was wrong. Turns out that you guys have been faithfully coming back here, reading old posts, maybe sharing this space with people who didn't know about it. Thanks for being patient with me, and for continuing to read me, even though I'm not Hemingway, which, all things considered, I'd rather be me than him, anyway. Mostly on account of he's dead. And also, I have no room in this apartment whatsoever to display a Pulitzer or a Nobel. Not that I wouldn't make an effort, if I ever received one. Actually, I think both those awards come in medal form - so I'd probably just wear that shit around all day.
Stay in touch, y'all.