I should not be a writer because my Word document this week looks like this:

“I am not a victim. I have chosen. Unfortunately, I am an idiot. 

You realize that inlaw is the opposite of outlaw. I just need one hundred thousand people to give me ten dollars. I have never shopped for a recliner but I buy condoms all the time. So many post-it notes so close to home. It is marketing copy, but I believe. A crime novel doesn’t have to be a mystery. Sometimes it can be a heartbeat. It doesn’t have to be a new way, just my way. If I had faith the size of a barnyard animal… 

I tug on my stomach. 

In memory of you.

There’s a financial crisis outside my door, but my life seems as miserable to me as it was before. What if I wrote down every witty thing in the world and put it between two covers. Would that be a book? 

Is this what we’re reduced to, then? Men with rats as pets. The unifying cause of no cause. It’s kind of like a comic book. Kind of like Don Quixote. He was saying ho-hum for the lord. I’m writing sentences on my palm to save the ones that don’t wear off.”