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📓 Tuesday, December 28, 2025 — 7:08 p.m.
I’m sitting here typing away like my words matter… and maybe they do, and maybe they don’t.
Day after day I wake up and sit on my bathroom floor looking for the day’s daily prompt to answer, then I’m off to sell my cases of plastic bags. Phone at hand to take calls, texts, and watch some YouTube—and no, I don’t hold it with my hand while I drive. That would be inexcusable.
The most important part of my phone has become this: talking to it whenever I have an idea or I’m feeling something. I dictate into it. I guess I’m writing while I’m driving through South Central L.A.
And I think I enjoy writing because it isn’t what I thought it was.
I never intended to become enamored with writing. I know my writing can be all over the place—random sometimes—but I never said I was a great writer. I’ll read other writers on WordPress and I’m like, damn… they can create. Some of them create entire worlds. Then I’ll see doctors writing about vacations, someone else writing about the literary books they’ve read…
Then there’s me—writing my thoughts.
I am Plástico Man. Haha.
Question: What’s something you didn’t expect to love… but it grew on you anyway?
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