Sunday night (don't read this ... is just to keep the words coming)

A weekend spent mainly in my apartment waiting on people who never came, allowing myself to become overwrought for no particular reason. Almost crying. What the fuck is that.
O was in a bad mood this weekend. Don't know what her problem is. I should speak with her less. Doesn't do my head any good.
The words are not coming this evening, but I have to keep my fingers nimble. Haven't been pounding the keys out enough lately.
The singing is strange. I spent too much time on the computer looking for software to help me out with the singing. Bought myself a microphone. Figured out how to record myself. Wow do I sound awful. I spend an hour warming up my voice and practicing scales. While I'm cooking I begin to sing and it really sounds good to me. Like a warm reed instrument. I feel the air vibrating in my body. It sounds rich. Then I go and record and I am amazed at how bad it sounds. It's awful. I want to throw it all away.
But it's keeping me busy. I like it. I'm not smoking. I'm still drinking too much, but you can't do everything. I feel my stomach. I feel fat again, but I've put together the exercise bike. I have to start using it, but first I need the TV and the installation guy had an epileptic fit so he didn't come to install the tv. so i spent the weekend roaming from room to room and kind of singing but not really, looking for software, but not really, and i could have been writing the whole time, and i don't know what i'm doing here and i should really go to bed but not really, and i couldn't find the whole in the wall but not really, and i couldn't find the rhythm in my fingers and the figs are in the geyser, but not really.
need to feel the sweat again. the strain
but there is a bruise all up and down my leg, because a table fell on me in the middle of the night.
all of those words and nothing to show, will i publish this? I guess not, I will just leave it all in limbo. but the idea is that all that shit which flows though my fingers must be put out there otherwise there is no momentum, no impetus to writing something different, something better, but what could i ever even write.
novels are for architects like DFW who just comitted suicide.
never realised how autobiographical his novels were.
but the patience, the building, the details of these books
who am i to criticize even an author like MH who I can't stand
he had the patience to write those hundreds of pages, though sometimes I wonder why and sometimes there are so many parts that he could have finished, but he was just to lazy.
Ok I've written, i've limbered the fingers.
that's enough, maybe some more will spurt out later.