I want to break something. Just crush something with my hands until they can't squeeze anymore. Like an orange 'til all the juice is on the floor and there's nothing left between my cramping palm and shaking fingers but a dripped dry orange pulp of rind and see and chewy innards.
FUCK. Fuckity-fuck. Cock. Balls. Shit. Cunt. Twat.
Okay, I'm better now. This is what I need to do. I need to find a computer place, and just save the hard drive and I'll be fine. I can do that today. After breakfast. And after that a surf. A good long one.
[stop]
There's no saving things so thoroughly fucked, I guess. At least they were nice and only charged me 35,000. It's an empty hopeless feeling that grips me now. No other words for it. Empty. Hopeless. Dazed too maybe. All this trying to think my way out of losing one month of work has left the inside of this poor little coconut stripped bare and dry and devoid of any goodness that was once there. It's left out in the sun, open to rot it has. I don't know what to do. I don't know where to start anymore. I'll salvage the drive back home I tell myself. Salvage the pages on pages on pages. But homes still a month away, and I pray, dear God, have mercy on that little drive until then, and let whatever crack-whiz I find in LA be able to rescue it. Please. I won't rewrite it here, and I hope that I'll never have to. I just soldier on by hand 'til it cramps, by the pencil and paper, new chapters, new thoughts, not ones that have already been written. Be brave and have courage with your fucking words.
Hemingway, out.
