Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Dead Things. All the Dead Things.

- I have my Nook charging, because I'm going to read terrible erotica and blog about it. I really don't even know how I'm going to do this, because I have to literally type out all my entries on my phone and email them (SUCH IS MY DEDICATION TO MY CRAFT) in order to post them, so there will be no links, italics, or bolded words.

- Apparently, the turtles can do tricks, but all I've ever seen them do is silently loathe me.

- I really like reading those lists of things about themselves that people sometimes post on their blogs, partly because I read them in this bizarrely flirty tone, and then it's like some random stranger is hitting on me. But not in a weird way. But then I try to write one, and it's not sexy at all, because it's a lot of talking about lipstick and finding dead bats. Apparently that's NOT the best way to be flirty? If that's true, I'd never flirt with anyone, because I REALLY LIKED THOSE DEAD BATS. Some of them were HEADLESS. We kept one on the windowsill for a while, because I had a very average home life, growing up. Why do all my posts turn into me talking about playing with dead things?!

- Instead of saying I'm writing a novel/book I usually say I'm writing a thing because it makes me sound less like a jackass. But I'm... writing a novel. About dead things. NO, REALLY. It's about dead things, but it's not, like Dead Things I Have Kept on My Windowsill, because that's just silly. Sometimes we also kept them in the flowerpots. Look, I lived in the hills, I had cats, dead things were everywhere, and if you found one that was in really good shape, you kind of... well. You kept it. To see what would happen to it. It was one of my mother's hobbies. Actually, I find it kind of comforting now- like, last weekend I found a bird head*, and I was like IT FEELS LIKE HOME.

*I didn't keep the bird head.

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