nikki.lol

Beth watched the man step off his boat onto her dock.

Simon sits at the coffee table and stares out at the waning afternoon light.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

No, no sir, I wasn’t there.

Mildred walked down her front steps and down past the cul-de-sac, striding onto the small path that separated the residential homes from the community spaces of Shady Acres, the fifty-five plus community she was a resident of for almost two decades.

The laughter became more muted, walking past the forest’s edge.

i Note This content is more than a few years old and things may have changed.

I’m about 10,000 words into my first full draft.

Let’s talk word count.

This morning, I read in Saturday’s Washington Post Lifestyle section that although the pandemic won’t make us nicer people, it may change us1.

Irish whiskey runs through these canals, the many waterways that power my arms and legs and heart and the two eyes that watch these words fallow out of a chaotic mouth, purple lips in front of my violent tongue.

It’s Saturday morning.

What if we just forget the world ever happened this year?

When I was a teenager, I would lie in the middle of the street late at night.

The new view from the home office.

Money is a rough subject to talk about, especially with people where it’s been taboo all their lives.

One of my many nightly walks in New York City.

Pugsy died a little over three weeks ago today.

Two o’clock in the morning, I’m awake with a back that is convulsing with pain like a man on death row being electrocuted.

Coffee, first and foremost, coffee.

I’m not often a person that is scared of new things.

A few months ago, I bought a new Lenovo X1 Carbon.

A Harvard sunset.

Change is the only constant in life.

I have a fear of getting older, of becoming sick.

There was a time in my life where the end of the year would prompt a flurry of goals to achieve in the coming year.

About a year ago, I became interested in Germany.

When I was twenty-two, I worked on a dude ranch.

Maybe it’s turning forty or maybe it’s watching Pugsy grow older each day, his arthritis making it difficult for him to walk down our front steps.

Since I started this website, almost a full year ago now, I have written under a pseudonym.

Twenty years ago tomorrow, on October 10th, I killed someone.

i Note This content is more than a few years old and things may have changed.

There is only the mad dash through life, clawing and kicking out of the current version I have created for myself, trying to make it to the next version that I assume will be better than this one.

There’s a gluttony of run toward something, not away from it blog posts on the web.

On this relatively cool Sunday afternoon, I’ve got my feet up, a Stella Artois on the coffee table, and a contented feeling slipping around inside my body.

It’s a few minutes after four in the morning, and I’ve already been up for an hour.

Have you ever seen Complete Unknown?

I haven’t written in ten days.Not a sentence, nor a paragraph, nor even just a few words.

The tattoo I had inked in Prague is just about healed.

Currently, I’m reading A Field Guide to Getting Lost by Rebecca Solnit.

We left Berlin just over an hour ago and are hurtling toward Prague at 160 kilometers an hour on a train.

In between the staccato voice of the announcer, in between the different languages (of which I only understand English), there is the absolute tiredness that comes from being up for twenty-six hours straight, and the sheer joy of lifting away from the gro…

I didn’t write yesterday.

I’m back.

This past weekend, I began purging.

When I was a senior in high school, the movie Kicking and Screaming was released.

I have a love/hate relationship with social media.

Finding balance is not something I am particularly good at.

Life is fucking hard.

There is an endless number of words in your body.