Narcissism

My blog has 200 visits a day. I’m 40,000 words into my novel. I’ve slept with many fine women. I was in a band. I’m a dating coach.

It’s Easter. I’m in a small town. Last time I was here, visiting my family, I picked up three girls in three days. My sister told me I was a player. “I wasn’t a player in high school.” I say.

“Oh, I didn’t know that.” She says.

People here have no fashion sense, probably because there’s no standard. They stand around on corners talking, because everybody knows each other–they’re friends of cousins and so forth. They’re safe, and bored, and preparing to expire. Except for the young. They’re restless and bored and ready to live. It’s not the size of the prison; it’s the sanity of the cellmates.

I spend the days sitting on my Mothers couch watching the children run and scream and climb and poop. The men talk about their work. When they ask me about mine I tell them, “It’s good.”

“Let’s of weird guys for you there in the city eh?” They ask.

“They’re usually not that weird.” I reply.

“I can’t live in cities. Too many people.” They say.

“I get that.” I reply, flipping through Facebook on my Iphone.

“So what do you do for money? They ask.

“I write.” I reply.

“What do you write about?”

“Self-Help.”

And then they blink a few times, chuckle and crack a few jokes. I smile, and ask my sister to drive me to a café so I can write.

It’s not the town I abhor. It’s not the family that annoys me. It’s going backwards in time to a place I left behind. It’s watching the locals mill about like zombies in stasis.

But then again, maybe they know something I don’t.

Nah.