For those of you in on the pool of when this day would come, count it as day 54.
My health has gone to total shit (as it often does this time of year) and the meds I need to take to manage that leave me pretty addle-brained.
Because right now what I’m more interested in is the challenge of trying to write some fiction on a regular basis rather than obsessively stick to some ideal of posting every day when my current circumstances will reduce those daily postings to streams of profanity and bad limerick attempts to try and find things that rhyme with dystonia, I’m going to let go of forcing the daily posts – especially over the next few weeks.
I will still complete my 100 days, but they may not be consecuative. I’ll try and keep it as tight as I can, but would rather post in 36 or 48 hrs and have the space to play with and flex my fiction muscles than just waste digital space putting up crap. I’m trying really hard to not have to let got of all the exciting stuff I’ve got going on in my life right now, but I’ve got to scale it back, let go a bit in order to not lose it all.
But stay tuned, there’ll be more on Love of the Living Dead yet to come, and maybe some other random snippets of fiction. And heck, I may even come up with that limerick!
3 thoughts on “FUCK”
There once was a chick from Estonia
Whose body was full of dystonia.
She’s walk like a duck,
Say nothing but FUCK.
If she gets really stoned she might phone ya…
“I love you man!”
There, I got my sense of humour back – and apparently my sense of amphibrachic meter.
There’s probably only about 8 people in the whole world who’d get why this is funny, consider yourselves dedicated to my dearies!
Waaa! My apartment is too hot! I have a headache and don’t want to take a pill! Woe, betide, and fuck!
I am sorry that fuckuptitude has caught up with you, Valerie-o.
Usually when I try to type, out of promise to myself or others, or out of time between replies going by, usually I say something worth skimming. But some days I don’t. Which rates as a useful exercise. My theory about after I crash into depression is, keep trying the doors and windows. Try things that I sometimes like, and if I hate them, stop. Try the radio, crayons, words, phone, dishes, simple cooking, email, walking, bathing, grim jokes, etc, and previously scheduled activities. In actuality, I don’t end up trying that many. But since I’ve never fully done it, its still a theory. (Hmm, perhaps I should’ve written a limerick.)
There once was a gal who felt
that her poor heart would melt.
She lost her two friends.
And her days she spends,
tightening her ribs like a belt.