How to be Unhappy (unfinished)

The ring of his tiny alarm clock seems to reverberate in his head long after he has turned the alarm off and attempted to roll back into the familiar stupor of a fresh hangover. It’s 9:00 A.M. and a light breeze brushes his forehead, hitting him like smoke off the warm breath of last night’s hooker, bouncer, cab driver. If this were a movie, his hair would flutter majestically in the wind. But his hair does not flutter in the wind, as it should, for he applies hair gel every morning, quite routinely; his hair just sits there, uninterested, uninteresting, still black, still graying, needing a trim. Satin bed sheets lie in a golden tangle near his hairless feet. Brooks Brothers pants hang dejectedly, lopsidedly from a wooden chair near a queen-sized bed. A black belt coils on a marble floor. Apart from the bed, a simple wooden structure backed by an unnaturally large, elaborately, ornately carved, gold-rimmed headboard, the only other furniture in the room are an armoire, a mirror, and a small table to hold the aforementioned tiny alarm clock. Grayness pervades. The morning is dead. The king is dead.

Operation Sleepy Freedom

I think there’s an alien in my room. I think it’s terrorizing me. Yeah, over there, in the corner. See that. That rhythmic, pale green flashing. See it. It’s driving me insane. I’m trying to go to sleep. I want it to go away. Just tell it to go away.

Hide the Lion, the Reagans are Coming

The other night, my brother came into my room and said, his voice quite emotionless, “Hide the lion, the Reagans are coming.” Then he left, and I went to sleep.

Welcome to Literarely Amusing

-Welcome! Bienvenue! Bienvenido! etc.

I hate to do this. But please allow me to start with a WARNING: that is, that the intention of this blog is not to showcase beautiful, perfect literature, prose, writing, whatever. Rather, I mean for it to serve as a sort of outlet for all of the random crap I write and think. And I sincerely hope that somebody out there might be interested in what I have to say. So if you, my devoted reader, should choose to view what I write as beautiful literature, that's wonderful (and I would love to give you a high-five sometime)! If not, that's fine with me too (and I would still be willing to give you a left-handed high-five, unless you are left-handed, in which case I would be willing to high-five your right hand; if you're ambidextrous, congratulations--that must make your life much easier).

Most of what I write (at least, up until now) is, of course, from a collection of my own experiences and thoughts. It relates to what I read and what I care about and what I think, and I, I, I, I, I. But is in my genuine interest to broaden the spectrum of what I write about. So if I try to write fiction and it falls flat, is just absolutely terrible, abysmal, characterless, garbage, pretend you didn't read it and move on with your day. Don't dwell on it. But if you like it, leave me a comment or something, and I'll think about where to go from there.

My goal is to put something--anything--up every week, a short story or essay or...haiku (#super-alt?), but I'm going to college, so we'll see how that plan pans out.

Anyways, thanks for reading! I'm sure you're quite busy, or would rather be on Facebook, so thank you again for taking the time out of your day.

-P.J.F.R.