January 14, 2011 – Liberally Not Amused

Liberal does not equal insult.

Claustrophobia can be found inside spaces equal to the size of my brain.

Progress only lasts as long as we let it.

Cold feet are really fucking annoying.

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I made a promise that I would write at least once a day, every day for 8 weeks. It’s only been three days, I think, and I have yet to be able to put more than a few sentences together. None of which are in anyway coherent or the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel to get this colossal UFO off my back.

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Nails on a chalkboard are not always just nails on a chalkboard.

Word counts are only as accurate as the words that count.

Crocodile tears wash away the clouds and drown out the thunder.

Which way to Serenity, please? I need to go off world for a spell, way out into the goram black.

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I thought I was supposed to be getting “older and wiser” – instead I’m getting “older and much-less-able-to-focus-on-any-one-thing-for-longer-than-I-can-hold-my-bladder.” I have an innate sense for life – we all do. That’s why we breathe, curse and love without fail. I seem to have misplaced one of my “n”s and put an “m” in its place, creating an entirely different experience on a day-to-day basis.

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floating above lead
fearful of poisoning falls
a violin weeps

 

January 13, 2011 – Some Inspiro Musings

“accidental orange juice”

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she wakes up, sees her wide ass in the wide-ass mirror through her tired-ass eyes, and wonders what the hell happened.

Well, maybe not every woman, but probably most women?

Okay, hopefully not just me.

The point is when life’s lemons start showing up as pound cake thighs drizzled in doughnut glaze and permanently pursed lips from the sour taste in the back of the throat, it’s gotta be time to change some shit up and make orange juice, right?

The brain says there are
no accidents for realsies.
Sound waves between ears.

January 12, 2011 – Description of a Fire

I placed the dry twigs across the fireplace grate, trying to lay enough of a foundation to build the fire but arranged loosely enough to let oxygen through to feed the flames. I then added some paper to get the quick burn started.

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Well, that’s incredibly boring.

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Isn’t it Snoopy who is always trying to write this incredibly amazing introduction for his novel about the Red Baron when suddenly Woodstock flutters his way over and interrupts thus providing a bit of comic relief as well as a direction to hold interest for the reader?

Good God, I could use a Woodstock now.

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The last of wood is disintegrating into red orbs, glowing amidst a pile of ashes.

There is a tiny blue flame struggling to stay lit.