I Have Nothing to Write About

I have nothing to write about. I missed you all day. You were gone. I had no way to reach you. All day I wanted to smoke. Misery and stress talked to me about cigarettes. I did not smoke.

I saw a bug on the floor at work this morning when I opened the restaurant in a pool of water dead and upside down a cicada. I walked around him as I did my chores defrosting fish and shrimp and heating gumbo. When the coffee was done I picked him up and placed him on a towel to drain.

I read the comics and the horoscopes, then the rest of the paper. Later I picked him up to see what he looked like. He was too complicated to describe green and black with stripes and two white smudges on his wide belly? throat? And his two eyes looked like they were stuck on as an after thought carelessly far apart, and his mouth or nose looked exactly like the shell coverings of a ladybug's wing without the spots or the separations, and his little legs were folded like debit brackets and other than his wings he looked very earthy. I threw him in the waste basket - he was too complicated. Maybe when I find another one I can be more exact and considerate.

I couldn't read anything tonight. I wanted to give up - I wanted to get a better color TV and subscribe to cable, and to buy an old refrigerator for my beer, and to get one of them skinny Texas girls in tight jeans and lots of makeup so I could relax and swear and not think anymore. I am too young to sit alone and watch dustballs fight silent battles along the edges of the faded carpet.