- You can't write about frustrations with your job (or jobs, depending on the day), because that would be unprofessional. Haven't you been watching the news? People get fired for that shit.
- You can't write about how, in the course of six months, a dominatrix you met through a writing project became one of your most trusted friends. Those S&M leather chicks are freaks. You can't be associating yourself with them.
- You can't write about the new guy with the outdated name who was funny in the most unintentional of ways. You can't write about how you were sort of into him in that "we just met but he has a positive energy" sort of way, but he vanished without a trace. You'll want to write "Dude what the fuck I thought movies and brews was a good time?" Don't write that. It'll make you look like a dumb ass.
- You can't write about driving your ex-girlfriend to the doctor's office. You can't write about driving her to the hospital. You can't write about driving her to the police station.
You can't write about the comment from an officer that she overheard, the comment that left her crying in the car for twenty minutes.
You can't write about the Lowe's receipt you keep in your wallet as some sort of fucked-up souvenir, the one you received after purchasing a drywall patch to fix the hole you left in her wall when she told you what happened to her.
You can't write about the dozens of winter nights spent on her couch to make her feel safe. You can't write about sleeping on her couch and entertaining thoughts of being in her bed.
Because you're like, totally gay, and being gay is natural, so wanting her is completely against nature, right? She's your lesbian ex-girlfriend for a reason.
- You can't write about the dream you had about him. The two of you haven't been speaking to each other because of what he said. In your dream he's crying, his face buried in your chest. You run your fingers through his dark hair and feel the tears soak through your shirt. You wake up from your dream and decide to call him, and as you wait for his answer you wake up, realizing you had still been dreaming.
You pull yourself out of bed, look at yourself in the mirror, explore your living room and kitchen to make sure you're awake and in the real world. Your fight with your friend suddenly seems petty and with his current living situation you know he needs your support. You decide to call like you did in the dream. He answers. He says he really appreciates the call but asks if he could call you back. He says he's been "sobbing like a little bitch" all morning, and is embarrassed to be on the phone in such a sorry state of affairs.
You can't write about this, because events like this don't happen in reality. If you write about this you admit that it happened, that it's somehow real. If you admit that it's real it means you're crazy.
When your other friend tells you about the coworker who called to tell him about a "really vivid dream" she had about him and his history, laugh along with him as if you think she's crazy, too. Those odd people with their fucked-up dreams... those psychopaths need to get a grip!
- You defintitely can't write about the sex dreams you had about your crying friend every time you were angry with the person you were seeing at the time. That would be, you know, trashy.
- You can't write about the events that made up the beginning of the year 2011, especially in the form of bullet-point lists of things you can't write about.
You can't write about anything on that list. Ever. Just don't do it.
However, you can write about how, as March comes to a close, the promotion at work finally comes through.
You can write about the dominatrix who can keep up with your dialogue and reads all the same books and brings you soup when you're sick.
You can write about the new guy with the outdated name who left some really damn good beer in your refrigerator, and how good that beer tasted as you worked on a cover story for the magazine you've been writing for.
You can write about the call from your ex-girlfriend, the one where she said she could sleep in her apartment alone tonight. You can write about how you threw the Lowe's receipt away.
You can write about how you'll always have an open shoulder for the friend who won't stop crying, even though you think he's sort of an ass... an adorable ass, but still an ass.
You can definitely write about the sex dreams you've had about him. That shit's hilarious.
Still don't write about your other dreams.
They make you look like a weirdo.