I suck at writing.
And it happens to be the very thing I do the most. That, and talk to myself.
Quite a lot actually, it’s becoming pretty normal.
So normal to the point that just the other day, I sneezed out loud at Costco. Instead, I answered myself.
“Bless you.”
Except, I just stood there. A man laughed. And then a woman too.
Though it might’ve been the woman first because it had to be at that moment that I believe she said, “I think you should be saying congratulations.”
Yeah, and then he laughed immediately right after.
Now I remember. And then he turned around to her and said, “what…”
“Evil spirits have been expelled,” she said.
Interesting, I thought.
Okay now, personally I don’t know anything about evil spirits but I do suppose that this might be a good thing.
Maybe even a great thing.
Meanwhile, I can feel pretty confident that my soul is not being possessed. Which reminds me of a movie I saw last summer about the one with the girl and the guy.
No, the one with the nun. The Nun. That’s it. THE NUN—could barely get through the trailer.
Anyways, I suck at writing. And that’s perfectly fine because I suck at basketball too.
However, painfully I’ve uniquely found the forbidden secret to dominating off the dribble. A rare combination of simplicity, the perfect combo in motion, without moving much of my feet.
Although I did stumble once—to confuse them.
Anyways, while I’m pretty sure I’m not using any of these terms correctly—-my brave attempts of making a life worth living are completely intentional. Which turns out to be, honestly, far more challenging than what I just wrote.
I mean, look at me…
I used to struggle to get the ball around my body but now, I don’t.
“Can you do a D Rose move?”
No. But to the bright-eyed kid on the court, be extremely cautious.
Until next time.
“Don’t be so humble — you’re not that great.” — Golda Meir
