When the Elephant Lifted His Leg to Dance, We Saw His Chains

     Last night was interesting enough.  Dinner was okay- at a chain restaurant and greasy.  Pink Velour and Mommy Jubs were there, as were FishMomGrr (with sister) and HorseBerri.  Mommy Jubs is the one I get along with the best.  She has potential to learn and try new things.  I like that about her.  If I say I read a book I loved or watched an awesome movie, I can count on her to try it out.  That's cool because then the next time, she'll say "Oh, I saw that, and it reminded me of _.  You would like that, too."  She's working part-time now, so she's back in the real world instead of looking for reasons to shop at Wal-Mart and Sam's.  DaVinci and I haven't shopped at either store in years, and it's odd how proud I am of that.

     I was thinking, as I drove there and rocked out to Pat Benatar (on two radio stations!), that maybe I should commit to my writing a little more.  That's asking a lot of me.  It would mean some pretty goofy changes for me; change is not something that gets me wet.  I like to write short fiction from time to time, and poetry if the mood strikes me.  I've written about the Pretender and The Poet, but never once about DaVinci.  It would have been easier in the beginning, when we were all goofy and romantic.  But now, there's no more art to this.  That's a little devastating to think about, really.  I'm in need of art, some heat, passion, some violence, even.  I've also been listening to a lot of She Wants Revenge.  Mmmm, Monkey wants....
     To write, I'd need some time to myself.  I don't get a good dose of alone time.  Even in my own home, I don't get a lot of privacy.  DaVinci and I are sharing a car (which should end today), so he knows where I am at all times.  He also has all the log-ins and passwords for everything, since he does all the online bills and plays my mafia wars.  I'm confident the only thing he doesn't know about, and he may, is this blog.  When I write this, it's to get the crazy out of me and onto the internet where crazy belongs.  The level on anonymity I have on this, allows me to write things like, "I scratch my thighs now.  Because I scratch my arms, and you promised to help me.  And now, you check my arms for cuts, but don't help."  When I write creatively, I work in sections, and self-edit as I go.  I want to re-read and correct it before I share it with anyone.
     What's really lame is that I'm not that good.  That's said in no polite, humble way.  In fact, I write impressive literature reviews and research articles.  Comparative literature, noting little quirks in a piece, and the basics of any literature class, I am a whiz at 'em all.  When it comes to creative writing, I can only write the things that I know.  I tend to fictionalize (is that even a word?) the facts.  I take the people I know, and put them in situations I'd like to see.  Or I take strangers, and give them identity.  I am not a writer, just a player.