It Lays Like A Rug

It's been so long since I've tried to have a real conversation with anybody that I've lost whatever knack I had for interacting with my family. As if I ever had one: I don't recall ever really hitting it off with anybody I wasn't fucking, which categorically excludes my family (as far as you'll ever know anyway). Yes, that was a joke. "What was?" Oh just skip it. ... It's eight months later than (above). I'm preparing to go visit an old friend or two, one I bored silly on the phone for 6 months in 1981 and one maybe one guy I've known online for 20 years but never met. These two have been my most loyal buddies, if you can call it that, for several years, the others having disappeared or gone into middle management. If there's anybody I can relax and communicate with these two are it: they've both had several periods of social Otherness and they've always been willing to admit being acquainted with me. Ain't that something? Anyway. About this medium: I've never finished even a 10-page very short story because I've always approached writing like an adolescent, waiting till I was required to as in school assignments or till inspiration struck me as in my feeble attempts at poetry. This is not the way one makes significant contribution to the Western Canon. It's not that I have nothing to say, just that I'm remiss at getting out anything but occasional scraps. Perhaps trying to be more "professional" about writing, even scheduling regular times for it, would help; that's worked since last summer for going to the gym at least. We'll see.