It's four thirty in the morning. I'm trying to get my 2000 words done for the day. Or am I? I'm listening to the five songs in my youtube playlist (three of them are Oingo Boingo, of whom I cannot seem to get enough lately) and playing failed game after failed game of minesweeper. I'm doing everything, actually, except writing.
It's hot. Hot, hot, and sticky. Oingo Boingo is yelling in my ears about how I'm going to die, and the backs of my legs are sticking to my chair, coming wetly off of the fake leather whenever I try to find a cooler spot. It's just me, my headphones, and a single ceiling fan at a crazy hour of the morning, while I 'write'.
I don't seem to have anything to say, tonight. My hair is in the loosest of buns, in a desperate attempt to get the mass of it off my neck. My beloved spilled beer on my computer, and the space bar is sticky. Everything is sticky. Keys, skin. The bottom of my tea cup, where tea and leftover sugar have dried in what looks like a sticky paste. I cleaned up spilled soda tonight that could have been from last night, and I remember the feel of it when I walked in it with my shoes. Almost like crunching. A sticky day.
It's smelled like rain all day, but there was no rain to be seen. The phantom rain. It's only July, but this might be a sign of monsoons to come. There was lightning in the clouds when I drove home, and the dust of dried raindrops from yesterday clinging to my windshield. Monsoons will be fun. The smell of rain in Arizona, of dust and water, and dust storms that always contain the promise, but rarely the treat, of rain. Just wind, and that tantalizing smell.
Skin can't touch skin, it's a rule in the summers. My shoulders are cramped, and my bangs are getting in my eyes. I want to put them somewhere, but they're too short to tuck behind my ears. God, I would kill for a back massage. Well. I would ask nicely for a back massage.
Not writing. I want to write, but instead I'm sitting here in the ungodly hour of the morning, smelling false rain and sticking to my chair and my clothes, listening to the macabre lyrics of a band that was popular before I was even born. My shoulders ache.
Have you ever wondered about the secret, glamorous lives of artists? This is it. Searching for inspiration, or lacking that, motivation enough to get 100 more words on the page, and 100 after that, and 100 after that, until I have reached my goal and until I can go to sleep with the least allowable amount of guilt.