If Hemingway Wrote My Life

The Teacher watched the bubbles race each other to the surface of his drink. It was a bastard drink, 7-Up and Knob Creek Whiskey on ice. It was the yellow of an ale and had almost no bite. He could have sworn he put in several fingers of the whiskey, but the soda held all the bite at bay. It was good and sweet in the late afternoon. It made his mind at ease at first swig.

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White Male, Spring, 2014.

My morning went, two alarms, check twitter to make sure today was real, not a dream, try to remember my dream, did it have something to do with the girl I work with(?), they all share qualities; a girl, a villain (as in someone worse than me) and my rise to recognition, my triumph, that’s how I know they are dreams, look at self in snapchat, coffee, clean room, push-ups, coffee, ignore cat, play with cat, coffee. Incense and sunshine fill my room. As clarity starts to fill my head I wish I could wander back down the corridors of my dreams. 

 

If other, parallel universes exist, there is one where the only difference in my character is which hand is dominant. I want to hang out with right-handed me. Of course, if that was the only physical difference, it still would completely alter how right-handed me’s life had played out. Something that minute, simply changing where the brain shoots the majority of its messages, could make him a totally different human being. I also want to meet girl me. In some other universe, there is a girl named Ashley or Angel or some shit, born from my parents, with the exact same taste and decision making process as me, the same likes and dislikes. She would be AWESOME. She would probably hate me and vice versa, but still, I want to meet her.  Continue reading

I Want To Fuck Hemingway

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”- Ernest Hemingway

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“To F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1 July [1925]

Burguete, Navarra
July 1—

Dear Scott—

We are going in to Pamplona tomorrow. Been trout fishing here. How are you? And how is Zelda?

I am feeling better than I’ve ever felt—havent drunk any thing but wine since I left Paris. Continue reading