Log 245 ~Pretending Is Optional, Not Requisite~

One more story so I can pretend to be a writer, I can say I have more time, but if I don’t do anything with it, and I’m starting back listening to my motivations as if I believe I will be inspired. Pretending Is Optional, Not Requisite

Monday, March 2, 2020

Log 245 ~Pretending Is Optional, Not Requisite~

Hundred And Twenty-Sixth Rule

Madam Justice,
I AM a Billionaire right now, or so I pretend as such. You know Madam Justice, I’ve never been a fan of that saying, “Fake it ‘til you make it.” Well, my motivations say otherwise. The law of attraction, positive affirmations, my current novella. At the moment, I’m unsure because sitting right here on this loveseat; I don’t have to pretend. The “dang” HUMMING is driving me crazy. In the shower this morning, I was breaking down, if you know what I mean. Going out into the world, I was scared to death.

As the song goes, “If I could be like that.” Again I think of my hero Dennis Hof. He was a Pimp, parent of a dog, and he penned a book. Two out of three right, Madam Justice? Sometimes I walk around like I’m a pimp, but as I’ve been saying a lot these days, things are falling apart. What about my story, am I giving up already? Last night I wanted to, no question. I’m three parts in, and I don’t know where I’m going. In chapter four, Minister Bridgeman is, of course, starting to give away his “holy man” ways duh. What about being a rich man at all? How much money did I send today, gorging myself? Didn’t I have a conversation about not spending money on a new Kindle and an HP Printer? Relax, I didn’t because even pretending to be reasonable is something else entirely.

I pretend to be, well, I’m not even a comedian anymore, I’m only the punchline. What’s sickening though is at the Day Job, I’m upset that I didn’t go in today. It’s (Saturday, February 29) LEAP DAY, which of course, I spaced on. Am I pretending to be a writer, Madam Justice? Getting back into my motivations, one says you’re either a writer or not. I’m not pretending to be a writer, but instead that anything I put down makes perfect sense. I’m living in the moment, and I don’t know what any of this means. My pretending is becoming real but only the worse things. If I may quote another song, “Why do the things I hate come so naturally.” One more reason I sleep all the time. But isn’t that, well “pretend that we’re dead.” I’m not suicidal.

When will I stop pretending Madam Justice, better yet how? Pretending Is Optional, Not Requisite.

I Will Have No Fear

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