Happy Friday, folks. Another work week down for all of
us young professionals, ha? Just clocking in and clocking out, amirite? Guys?
Just workin’ for the man, paying our bills. It’s a crazy world, being a young
professional. That’s what we’re called, right? Young professionals? I’ve heard
that on the radio anyways. The radio, huh? Can’t live with it, can’t live
without it, as the old young professional saying goes. Guys?
I recently started a writing class of a Monday morning
because I inexplicably have a lot of free time. The first class was fun and
typical. Most of the class was quite a bit older than me and the teacher was
quirky, artsy and had the trademark breathy voice of a writer. She was cool and
so were the other class members. Now, if I get a whiff of a full time job
they’re all dead to me and FUCK WRITING. But until then, they are my brothers
and sisters in arms and I love each and every one of them like family.
The teacher made sure to tell us that we should write in a journal every night.
We are not writing a diary, (which makes the title of this piece fairly
redundant, but hey, that’s showbiz!) but moreso a journal with writerly intent.
Every entry was to be descriptive and awash with prose and feeling. Mundane
events were to be transformed into something extraordinary. My life was to be
I gave it a go over the last few days. Here are a couple of entries.
General shitheads, teenagers and asshole
adults: “What films are on?” “What time’s the next film on?” “Can
I go see Hustlers please?” “But I’m his mother and I say he can go see
that film! This is ridiculous!” “Why do I have to pay an extra euro for a seat
I didn’t ask for?”
Me: Guys, if I could
just answer ye all in one sweeping statement. I appreciate that the signs are
hard to read and that the writing is a bit small on some of the fliers. I know,
too, that you’re his mother but, and forgive me if I’m overstepping the mark
here, but you don’t work for IFCO nor do you work here. That’s actually my
fault, sir. You can sit wherever you want and I’ll just inform the managers
that nobody wants to pay for luxury. So, everyone, kindly, FUCK OFF!
It is a blustery day here in the North of the City.
The rains have stayed away for now but there is talk of a storm coming.
Lorenzo, they are calling him. Isn’t that funny, Diary? I am imagining a big
hunk of a man, of Spanish descent of course, riding in to our Emerald Isle on a
horse and sweeping the nation up in hysteria.
Oh, Diary, it has been so long since anyone has swept me up in hysteria, if you
know what I mean. Do forgive me, Diary. I don’t know myself sometimes.
The local picture house still holds me in employ, thankfully. I am looking for
something more permanent but I doubt that an office will satisfy my need of
popped corn and cola, HA HA HA HA. Oh, we do have fun, Diary.
Anywho, it has been fun. Until tomorrow, my friend.
All I give you is love. I made a promise to love you
forever, through thick and thin. I have upheld my end of the deal. I will love
you forever, but you have to meet me halfway here. I can’t be doing all of the
work. I can’t see you week in and week out just not caring about me anymore.
It’s not just me. There’s a billion of us out there, loving you and needing you
to just… care. So, as God is my witness, if you lose to AZ Alkmaar tonight in
the Europa League I will still love you, but I will not like you.
I’m still working on my tone. Hopefully my teacher
approves. Wish me luck you guys, xo