The past few months have been ridiculous and I’ve spent a lot of time whining about things that are out of my control. I think I got my mojo back. There’s an orchid blooming on my window sill, I watch people scream Talking Heads at karaoke every Tuesday, I drink a lot of strawberry soda. Whatever forever.
- Write a book.
- Burn the book.
- Blame everyone else.
At the golf course at one in the morning, while smoking a Black & Mild, Kevin made up a story about Jambalaya Man and he brought back high school butterflies and I was awkward and infatuated if you’re wondering what I’ve been up to.
A church steeple with “YOLO” spray-painted vertically.
The wheels on the bus go ‘round and ‘round until they fall off and all the women inside lose count of their crocheted stitches.
There is a finite number of ways I can say, “I feel like a white church made of rotting wood,” and that’s why I suck at writing.