Notes on Writing, Short Story: The Rags

I don’t know that I want to write this story anymore.

This is turning into an inordinate amount of thought for what sort of ends up being a bit of a joke. I’m getting a little sick of pondering such questions as what the equivalent of snow in a laundromat is, or what pants eat, or how a bra and a cable-knit sweater might fornicate. It’s Monday night; I shouldn’t be thinking about this on a Monday night (I’m not sure why it being Monday strikes such a chord with me, I’m not sure that any day of the week is a good day to tackle such questions). Two things I do know are that A) all of those cartoons and movies where the main characters are talking cars or whatever actually have a ridiculous amount of thought behind them and B) the writers of all those movies cheat by just making their characters people who are shaped like cars or whatever…and then at the end someone poops out a bolt or gives birth to a sandwich or something and it’s all clever and what have you. I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. The next story, I can assure you, is going to be about a guy who sits around and doesn’t do much, maybe he watches some TV before dozing off for a little nap, but that’s it.

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