I am not–

February 16, 2012

By all accounts life around here has not been jam-packed full of excitement lately– dare I say it's... boring? Things are peacefully pleasant compared to a year ago when off the long end of a dreary winter we found out very theatrically that the Jude had severe lead poisoning, had our house reported to the Health Department, and we put our incredibly ill dog to sleep. It was balls, basically. Stankin' ass balls that made sections of my hair grow white.

So, I like boring. I am not complaining about boring. Those same long strands of hair are growing back in brown now, with only a white streak in the middle to show for every worry I worried, every night I spent awake in the darkness.

I've welcomed boring into my sitting room for tea and cookies and invited it to sit a spell. Far be it from me to complain that things are too quiet, and in fact even putting these words down is probably calling down terrible curse upon me as we speak. Maybe that's the reason I've attended so many funerals this year, no one is allowed to be too happy.

Run for your lives.

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While in some ways I regret that I don't have heaps of drama to lure in the readerzzz, of course I don't, because this isn't some work of fiction this is my god damned real life.

Placid may not have much entertainment value from the outside, but from the inside it feels awwwwww-right. It's happy afternoons and knitting and taking more pictures and drinking coffee– I accept this turn of events, I'd be an idiot not to.

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I feel quiet, and then I feel like I shouldn't be quiet. I think about posts I wrote months ago that I'm so damn proud of and why can't I just do that again, yes? I'll take five more of those, please, to go.

This is a thought that writers think. I am not a writer, in capital letters to the sky. What is happening to me?

– – – – – –

Sometimes I like it when people use breaks for dramatic emphasis. How do they make it work? No one knows. Movie! Magic!

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Other times, it think it's stupid. So stop. Unless you're one of those three lucky people who can make it mimic our hearts beating. I am not among them.

– – – – – –

I will write down the way the wind blows tomorrow and in fourteen years I can read it and remember that it happened, maybe that's our purpose. Maybe it's something else. Maybe I wish it was something else? Maybe I don't.
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