Day 54: Inside The Mind Of A Writer

I can see six, no seven, grey hairs. Why do they put mirrors in front of hotel room desks? Do visiting executives need to preen while they crunch numbers? Who am I fooling – there are no visiting executives in Cold Lake. I wonder how much dust is in this drape. I wonder how much toe jam is in this carpet. I wonder how much spooge...stop it.

Okay. Writing. I'm a writer. Today, I'm writing about Charlie and how she gave me the silent treatment for a week. And how that reminds me of the early stages of dating when you aren't sure if you're dating or just friends. Which is hilarious because why on Earth would two single adults be just friends? Answer: to get in each other's pants. Maybe I should buy some hair dye and deal with those greys right now.

What brand did I get last time? And is there any guarantee that I won't turn myself into Elvira Queen of the Dead again? My face is looking pale. If I get famous, I'll need a nose job. Everyone in Hollywood has a thin nose. They've surgically altered the standard of beauty. Although, I wouldn't even think about nose jobs had I not written those plastic surgery books. Ignorance is bliss. So is caffeine. Maybe another coffee would help things. I am a better person on coffee.

My grandmother asked me about the raw food thing. I wonder if she's acting as a spy for my parents. My parents would hate me eating this way. They would tell me to drink milk. They've been doing that all my life, like milk is the solution to all my problems. I'm on my death bed impaled by a rusting metal pole – here Mel, have a glass of ice-cold milk. I'm a homeless, failed artist living in a cardboard box – don't worry, a glass of milk will do the trick. Why am I worrying? They're across the international date line for Christ's sake. Fuck. Charlie. Silent treatment.

*Typing* I looked around the cafe, hoping Charlie was sulking in one of the corners, avoiding my gaze but ready and waiting to reprimand me for my delusions of grandeur, my crimes of character, my eyelash-batting naivete. It had occurred to me that my eloquent, "It's bigger than you," might have been ever-so-slightly misconstrued as hurtful and minimizing. What hadn't occurred to me was the silent treatment.

That sounds good. I would never say 'misconstrued' in real life. Nor would I say 'crimes of character' but that works on several levels, so... Is that the housekeeping staff? I should have put out the Do Not Disturb thing. Now they're going to knock and I'm in sweatpants and they'll think I'm lazy or coming off drugs. I'm not lazy, I'm hungry. I could eat a mountain of chocolate. Chocolate's not raw. Fuck raw. Fuck the word raw. Couldn't they come up with a more inviting name? Living food, maybe? I should become a raw food expert. I could do seminars. I've always wanted to do seminars.

Sixty-six words. That's all? God. It's almost eleven. My back hurts. I need a massage. I can't afford a massage. I can't afford anything. What am I thinking trying to be a writer when the world is falling down? What am I thinking trying to be a writer when I've only written 66 words by 11 o'clock?

*Typing* I could never be a lesbian. Women are too fucking moody.

That's good. Clever. But possibly offensive. Am I homophobic? My wrist hurts. I think I'm getting carpal tunnel. My writing career is over before it even started. I'm going to have to work in a fish factory sorting fish heads. Who told me that I could eat the fish eyes? Was it Dad? Probably. And cheeks. Trout cheeks. More of a novelty than an actual meal. Although, right now I'd take trout cheeks over another fucking salad.