Sunday Nights

Catherine adjusted her pants and walked in the 7-11. She searched the pop isle for her favorite beverage, diet coke. She thought about grabbing a milk and a corresponding fruit bar, one that had 2 pieces of fruit to equal one serving, she skipped both and grabbed the diet coke. She was late for her writing class and knew she had to get there before being noticed. She examined the clerk. He was a young kid and she often thought about his future. "Are you enjoying your day?", she asked him. "Yes, it's fine." She would wonder for the next two minutes if he budgeted well and had a certain energy that allowed him to have everything in life on that job. She concluded her three jobs after college still kept her in debt and did not equal his well bill payment. The reasons for this were numerous and she could not sort out them, she had lost her mind long ago and still could not place why she continuously made poor choices.

The writing class was an elegant dinner party each time she could never figure out. The people were so plain and ordinary that she thought they had planned it that way. She often thought someone had used black magic on her to confuse her about its location and the actual participant's abilities. She was a loser in a lost state and could not figure out why everyone continuously got no where, did nothing exceptionally, and kept themselves a secret agent that in her reckoning seemed a bit Jew or Amish. They were an odd group of travelers and she had know them for several years now. As they passed, once in a while, a large proud girl, she checked her weight often and tried to wear long clothing, would take her car and belongings to California because she had made the industry. Everybody would watch her go and then continue on as foot soldiers to no where. They would be the person that made it and the local indie theatre was available but never seemed to correspond with their ways and means. It was ultra hip while the group remained a conservative dash of normal mixed with utter kindness and decency. Catherine, once in a while, dipped her foot in wandering what the calculus was but left it behind and tried to function in the situation.

Writers are really odd creatures that usually tend to not really get how out of touch they are and how much other sects and groups don't like them much. Their families, friends, enemies and friends of friends watch them "do their thing" and wait for their next "whatever it is" to suffocate the status quo and wellness of most living systems. In this group, it was quiet peabodies that said little but got it. They understood it and left as they came in silence. They seemed to Catherine to produce average work and once in a while they would let her in on the joke. See, Catherine had never "made it", she just went there and tried to fit it in, in hopes of making it. Each time she would get close to making a career she would fall in to an odd sleep and silly events would happen that prevented her from getting somewhere or completing tasks. They would tell her they made a movie, they would suggest there was an event, but, as stated earlier, she was the clinger who was that stupid fuck that had aspergers and wasn't welcome. It seemed a Jacob's ladder that was stuck around people who deserved it and she was the straight and narrow person that got tossed to the odd isle. They would never say it to her directly but they would suggest it in their deep tone of acceptance, wellness, and positivity. The world was an odd dice game where she ended up sitting at the wrong table. She suggested to most folks social media and email killed her through her scattered behaviors years ago. Her writing seemed to land in a junk isle that now wanted to talk about dogs and marriage. Luckily, super natural events entered her pen's frame so she was not a loss cause.

She stepped in to the cold room. She took a seat. The short balding guy said hi and rubbed his baseball cap. The whole room was full of average misfits who never let people know their ultimate truth. She was positive someday she would figure out how to stay awake at the point of contact with the next stage. The sleepy narcolepsy she got again and again prevented her from having money, a car, a contact to continue this life long process.

The night proceeded with a solid rapport of readings and discussions. The levity and calmness of the group reminded her of a posh recovery scene. They were clean, they were mean, and they had tepid brevity that allowed them to lead and guide. She always felt like she looked stupid, unpurposeful, while they were kind and their clothes were clean and they had stayed focused during the sleepy narcolepsy to make writing a career. She still lived on Super America beverages and junk food and could not just "function and commit". She was a total loser. They had been and were no longer or some other sort of similar story she did not know.

She exited the room no smarter but feeling the buzz of purpose and she hoped for some sort of breakthrough in creativity. The group was definitely a far fetched group of vampires, she sighed and tried to find an Adderall. She ran down the stairs to find the diet coke machine. Her teeth were falling out from years of abuse and she hid it by eating soft foods and other crap. Nothing had ever changed, this was her Sunday night, like so many others, and she still could not find the door to success but enjoyed the nights coming and going. She sighed and knew she was still alive and went home.