Well, after two rather personal, scathing, longish entries in the blogosphere, I’ll content myself with a brief birthday blurb.
Rain drips down in a steady drone. The morning seems calm, peaceful. My Grumpy Odin novel starts to take some shape and I managed to find a Key Lime pie, on sale, at the small town grocery store. Birthday pie!
I’ve been dithering over should I just buy one or attempt to make one. Actual dithering.
I’d stop, feel up the canned milk, go over what I needed to make a Key Lime pie. Actual Key Limes? Could I just use juice or…? Crust choices??
And lo and behold, there, in the freezer section. On sale! From almost nine dollars marked down to five something.
Holy birthday wishes come true! Marie Callender. MARIE CALLENDER, YA’LL. The Cadillac of frozen pies.
All you have to do is LET IT THAW.
I also found four seasons of Glee at the local thrift store. Overly polished musical numbers, teen angst, overly polished musical numbers! My– when I want the world to just fucking go away– series.
Rainy day, Glee, birthday pie.
DVD’s in perfect condition, at that. It’s like a miracle. Finding a DVD at a thrift store that isn’t a scratched up horror is almost a miracle on the order of Key Lime pies and fishes.
No, I don’t have Netflix or Hulu. I have a DVD player and spare change I find under the bed, m’kay?
I have no plans today.
I don’t wish to hang with whatever friends I have left. See my post Safe. Mm.
If the rain clears up, or even if it doesn’t, I might head out to the Owyhees for a bit. And empty out the detritus from this past year. So I have lots of room for future detritus. Yay!
I might stay home and write. I might get my life in order and…
Someone has a project plugging away and lo and behold, it’s me.
I’ve been rewriting my Odin and Jesus thingamabob. I’m skimming through it, just trying to get the LATEST FREAKING VERSION out on the page.
What am I kalurching about? [That’s a vomit sound combined with another vomit sound, BTW.]
The Adventures of Grumpy Odin and Sexy Jesus
With possible name change– Mr. Grumpy and Sir Sexy. Which is…eh.
But I am always thinking of MARKETING these days. How to market X. How to get MORE PEOPLE TO BUY MY X.
I usually end up sobbing, and taking lots of things and stuff to calm my innards. Marketing has become my bete noire.
Where did I leave off before I drifted into MARKETING waters.
Doggedly discuss latest writing project because that’s why I started this blog in the first kalurchy place. And to spare my friends my burbling too-long emails. Poor friends!
SHUT UP, I DO SO HAVE FRIENDS.
That was for the roflmao voices in my head. Sorry.
Odin, Jesus, God, Maggie, batboys, Minions, Stella Lou, Click and Clack, Minette and Suzi and…
I am trying, this time around, to STREAMLINE the tale. It turned into a messy, sprawling mess last time around, which I liked but might, well, probably, would test the patience of dear readers who bothered to read it.
Poor Ms. Wuehler, she’s a bit all over the place here and if there’s a story here, I might need a compass, some rope, and a miracle on the order of loaves and fishes to find it.
Chapter five or so is where I am.
I’m having fun and want to get back to it, so that’s good. Of course I’ve written this one several times over now. It started off as a play, as a short story, and is now a PROJECT that will need MARKETING.
Can you sense a theme developing here?
I’d go off on a magnificent political rant but hey, I can funnel that rage and WTF is happening? into my sentences and word choices and subtext. When I have subtext. I am more Ibsen than Chekhov most of the time. If you get that, high five. Or– Ibsen wasn’t that subtle and Chekhov was really subtle. Okay.
I’m just letting it unfold, more or less, as it wants. TAOGOASJ seems to want to get back to the far more light-hearted, rather goofy road into the wilds of the Alvord than I had written it in earlier attempts.
As the Big Showdown will take place, still, in the Alvord Desert of Oregon.
Why is everything I write set in Oregon, mostly? Ah.
Because I’m from Oregon and setting all my tales, in, say, Alabama, just doesn’t work for me.
I have nothing against ‘bama, Roll Tide!, but…not from there or from the mystical, gothic-smeared South. I’m from the interior West, home of mythical cowboys and gothic Aryan Nations smeared bullshit.
Whee?…eee…uh. That’s a sound effect spelled out. Imagine the first part is ‘should I be happy about that? Then the second set is ‘no’, with the sound descending from a high squeal to a lower, softer noise and then a gulp.
I’m keeping a lot of the things I really liked from earlier versions. Names for things, characters, Swiss Charlie’s, Po. Po is Horus’s horse. Jesus has to be more charming, more slick. Odin needs some actual grumpiness! MORE COWBELL FOR ALL.
I still laugh at that skit from SNL. Christopher Walken is my spirit animal, as the kiddies opine. He’s not, but for that skit, he is.
Back to Grumpy Odin/Sexy Jesus.
I’m also working a lot on Maggie, the Head Receptionist. On her will and drive, on not making her such a Mary Sue, oh ghastly gasp of horror inserted here. [Uhhh!] I’ve kept the tentacles and the mask.
Oooh, who’s wearing a mask!
Look at you! HOOKED. Hooked, I tell ya!
Did I mention the cute ground squirrel prolly ate most of my pet eggplant? And that the cucumber I doctored for teensy black bugs has give up the ghost?
Yeah. I transplanted the eggie into a big pot and put it up high. It’s fine so far, just the leaves got nibbled off. It still looks rather splendid, except it’s just a stem with leaves at the top and one purple blossom left.
I also trimmed the forsythia and rose bush next to my mini garden, put up some redneck fencing– that’s whatever crap you have laying around used as a fence– and check my mini garden obsessively.
The yard bunnies prolly also had a tooth in this.
Oh! I turned over a board on the other side of the fence and there was a mama quail and her eggs. I hope she didn’t abandon them. I’m afraid to check. I do love quail. They are perhaps my favorite bird, with hummingbirds of course ranking right up there. I saw a hummer the other day. Poking that long beak into the wild roses. I thrilled. I was thrilled.
A little news– I somehow have nine novels to get written.
I have two done and nine to go. Someone, [it was me] mentioned titles to her publisher. Who remembered them, jumbled them a bit and then sent a contract…yep. [This is good. In case it doesn’t come across that way. This is good!!!!]
It’s a zany slapstick sort of life, yes, it is.
So! Blog-wise, I will be attempting to MARKET my oncoming flux of writing onto the indifferent universe. Even a mild splash would be nice.
Let’s see. I’ve mentioned my latest writing project, the Alvord Desert, MARKETING, my mini garden, and Alabama. I think that’s enough for now.
I don’t know what to write. Should I take several years off before composing a blog post or essay or rhyming couplet about my Afternoon with Foxpanzees? Do I fling my fiery sobbing words into some sort of incoherent stream of consciousness shriek for the one or two that actually read my stuff to try deciphering? Or just…dribble something out in the hopes I can start laughing at myself and all this? Before I go off to make signs to march or send off for survival muffin tins and coupons to buy sister-wives? I could go either way here. I have options!
I spent a truly bizarre afternoon with the relatives. I heard things I can’t unhear. Here. Let me give an example.
Microbes that eat oil. Now live in the ocean. And no spilled oil reaches the shore. Because of the microbes. That eat the oil all up. And they swim around looking for more oil. And we need more oil spills. Yeah. Those kids who go to clean animals are not needed or something. Yeah. Yeah. Microbes. Yeah.
No wait. There’s more. Also, did no one fact check anything they’ve heard screeched at them from talking heads and painted lips? Fact checking? Hello? Um. FACT CHECKING YOU FREAKING…yeah.
Why can’t illegals just get their green cards and be legal? How hard is that? It takes like a month. They drive over the border and kill people, like that one in San Francisco and then they drive back. He’s suing the government. That guy who killed that woman, he killed five others, the liberals want him to go free. Liberals liberals the liberals those liberals.
Nanci Pelosi is an extreme conservative in California. [Did I bring up the concept of purity politics and how they are splintering the Democrats? No, I did not.]
California, liberals, crazy, everyone moving away, California, liberals, crazy, everyone moving away, liberals. Regulations regulations liberals liberals liberals. [All the nuttiness and bad stuff in Idaho happens because of California liberals, by the way. Same in Oregon. Oh my, do Ore-Ida folks hate Cali peeps. I can’t even. I can’t even here.]
Obama had 1600 regulations he put on us, all executive orders. Trump has undone 750 of them. That colored man [Obama] blah something something and they call me a white racist when I disagree with him?[Yes, you are a racist. Yes, you are. Own it. You are a racist, you hate “coloreds”, as you’ve stated since I could understand that loud noise coming from mommy meant stuff. You won’t watch most sports because there are too many ‘colored’ playing in them. Own it. Yes, you are a racist.]
Liberals are trying to take our guns. They were punishing kids who sat out the protest.[No, they were punishing kids who went to the 17 minute walkout.] Let those kids eyeball a guard with a gun on his hip, that will teach them. [When there was a guard at Parkland. There was a guard at Columbine. At…]
They took God out of schools. That’s what’s wrong.[Point for point NRA selling points followed. Damn spooky.]
Do you think raffling off an Ak-47 will hurt the VA? [As the relatives raffle off guns to help raise funds for the local VFW chapter.]
We want to raffle off four guns this time.[Patter followed on all four guns. Make, model, etc. I zoned out like a dippy little bee.]
Regulations that safeguard water, air and soil bad bad bad. Liberals bad. Obama added all these regulations. [Obama seems to be King Regulation. ?]
Your neighbor can turn your land into a wetlands with the snap of a finger and you lose your farm land.[Paranoia? Who’s telling people this? We live in a high desert area. Wetlands ain’t really a big concern here.]
THE LIBERALS THE DEMOCRATS THE LIBERALS THE DEMOCRATS!!!
Oh and it went on and on.
I had to leave the table, where everyone had the voice tone of those who discuss the Illuminati as if they actually exist and are about to take over the world. That earnest, hushed, children telling ghost stories about a campfire…but they’re all adults who should fucking know better.
I watched adults, who were supposed to be the non-snowflakes, the non-liberals…become raving loons. Surreal does not seem enough of a word for that drawing down of a foggy veil of conspiracy theories, outright lies believed and then told as absolute truth and the sneering at anything remotely considered ‘left’. And then the not so sly sidewall of eyes directed at me…yep, I’m the Charlie Manson at the table, uh huh.
It was like watching my relatives through a smoke screen, is the nearest I can get to what happened. As my ears tried to close up shop rather than listen to Right Wing Talk hammer away at common decency, common sense and…some other stuff. That needling pound of the nonsense hammers on the happy blissful, angry, fearful, angry angry angry human nails on my poor ears. Puk puk puk!
As it was St. Pat’s day, it was rather like a moment from Waiting for Godot, except it was real life and you can’t go get a snack at half-time and then return for Act II, which is, as everyone knows, just a slight variation of Act fucking One! Thanks, Beckett. My relatives are all caught in a Waiting for Godot loop! Help me, Sexy Jesus!
A smoke screen with hammers pounding away and there’s nails and sound effects happening in my head. Then, just that humming silence when you turn your brain off before YOU START SCREAMING AND THROWING THE BOWL OF DIP AT THE NEAREST WALL WHILE INVOKING THE POWERS OF DARKNESS TO TAKE YOU TO THE BEACH FOR THE REST OF THE DAY. As sending your entire family to hell is such a liberal, Antifa, crisis actor, Nancy Pelosi thing to do.
I went to the other room rather than explode and scream and probably start crying from sheer frustration at how empty my relatives must be to buy that poisonous crap. And then regurgitate it so faithfully. With such erudite precision. Yes, they all look at me as if I’m the monster in the room. Because I’m a bit of a liberal. Which is right up there with being a bit like Jeff Dahmer these days.
No, seriously. That’s the impression I got. That I get. From the ‘other side’. Liberals are classed with serial killers, mass murderers, lunatics, cray cray sorts of all sorts. Have you not read the comments section under…? Yeah. So, you do know. Yeah.
Example of that from Twitter:
The left is obsessed with AR-15s when we all know what the most dangerous assault weapon in America is; Liberalism! Liberalism is an assault on our Judeo Christian values and morals. Liberalism is an assault on our Constitutional freedoms and liberties. Liberalism=Death. Elder Lansing
I’m an agent for death! Whee. Yay. Hurrah.
I remember, vaguely, corned beef and some small red round potatoes and a roll. I don’t like cooked cabbage so I didn’t have any. I remember horseradish. And a Coke. And clouds piling up over the Owyhees. Those big gorgeous stormclouds of spring that truly delight me and remind me why I love Eastern Oregon. Those gigantic spring storms that just rip the sky apart and smear it with clouds that go on for miles and miles. Those clouds that look painted by some beginning art student. That not-real collection of clouds that look like a post card.
I’ll end this therapy session with a woeful confession that aye, I should have stayed home. Let them have the talk they really must have wanted to have. I no more fit in with them than I…ever did.
And now it’s painfully obvious, since I cannot embrace their new/old views with a glad heart and nodding head, that I must gently retreat. And hope I find the social courage, if I am ever in their company again, to start screaming.
Let them see just how crazy ass crazy this liberal actually is beneath her contorting, lips glued shut, face. The horror on their faces, the nodding as they all turn on me, ready to watch me bleed and suffer. A real live liberal in their midst…I am the enemy.
That’s what I felt like today. The enemy. That on a battlefield, they’d put two in my head and then call me a snowflake as they did it. With the Glock that would be raffled off. Help me, Sexy Jesus. I fear I am past saving. I’m a liberal, after all.
Hi again! I am ovaries-deep in Remarkable Women of Brokenheart Lane, my aggressively feminist scream against the patriarchy. Come back here! I am, wait for it, just kidding a wee.
I JUST NOW noticed that if you put ‘conservative’ and ‘Christian’ in front of your name, you can get away with anything you want. Like, oh, treason, chasing porn stars around with a Forbes magazine that features your own daughter on the cover, refusing to treat gay folks medically, deporting brown people mostly because they’re brown people, making it hard or impossible for swathes of people to vote in elections, blah blah blah dee blah dee blah.
I’m gonna switch to that magical and all-erasing R and then go on a murder spree. Where I murder, in the name of Jesus, everyone I find objectionable, morally repugnant, disposable and a drain on our resources, which should only go to oil companies and bald eagles.
I want that statement of ‘very fine people on both sides’ to apply to my side, a’course, only.
Oh. Shithole countries. Lest we ever forget. Shithole countries is how 45 referred to Haiti, all of Africa, El Salvador…and probably a host of other places. Why can’t we have more people from Norway come here…was, I believe, 45’s lament.
And most of actual Norway started puking or laughing right after that. Or so the liberal media claims! Don’t check with CNN, they’re in Killary’s pocket! NBC works directly for Soros! ABC, might as well be We Hate Trump Wah network!
You know, “Vikings”. I guess they can leave their socialist shithole of a country on their longboats and invade us and take our gold, our women and our land. Like oh, they used to, way back when. i viking is, I believe, the term used, to describe those raids, where, I assume, the term ‘viking’ originates from. Maybe we should ask Europeans about that, since they still seem to have history classes at their socialist hellhole places of indoctrination…
Oh! Our gubbermint is shut down. [America, in case you thought I was Canadian.] Which is, somehow and laughably, passed off as the fault of the two or three Democrats still holding office right now in DC. Ummm???
We also, yes, had Fake News Awards, compiled by Pumpkincunt AKA Stormy’s Spankmonkey.
This has now become normalized. It’s normal for the American king wannabe to publicly go after news organizations…as it garners them ratings and cash when the White House does so. I noticed that. It’s a national version of Yahoo Answers right now. Fuck you, lol versus no, fuck you, lol.
Which draws in viewers on both sides in record numbers! It sells papers, it brings hits on websites, it creates smokescreens when actual shittery is brought forth or some piece of truly heinous, unAmerican legislation gets rushed through.
I digress. I meant to post a small update on my rewrite of a gritty novel into a more commercial-friendly, happy, funny, light-hearted sweet-esque dark fairy tale romp.
Novel! Must focus.
The ideas churn through my brain meat, oh yes. I am tying up this, that, the other, so it all makes a sort of sense that Western lit readers really seem to prefer in their Western literature.
Unlike real life, where things just happen and entire threads go nowhere and people do things without a tragic backstory to explain their every last little action in the present…my novel happily chugs along picking up easy-peasy happy little this and that to explain why X is X.
As my novel is art and not a ‘real life, let them see the long hairs on the beauty’s chin, sort of effort’, I think it best I strive toward a coherent three-fourths sort of project. As it will never be whole or perfect and is that not the entire beauty of novels, writing, art itself?? That the artist never declares, weeee, that’s perfect, never gonna obsesses about that one sentence in that one paragraph ever ever ever again!
Of course, that’s how we got those three weird and awful Star Wars prequels…so. Grain of sand, babies. Grain of sand.
Oh. So. I got a flash about the Snitty Ratballs and the Glitterbugs of Boise, Idaho. What if the Ratballs are…oooh. You’re gonna have to wait! But it was HUGE. It was BIGLY. I had to go back, to nearly the beginning, and INSERT tidbits to support the story that reveals itself in tidbits to me throughout the day. What if Amy Octopus and Vance Romance came to Winnemucca because Boise had been…ooooh. Oh yes, I have actual thoughts where ‘Glitterbugs’ and ‘Amy Octopus’ march through alongside ‘should I microwave a burrito for lunch or make a sammich’.
I did get a bit political this time around but I also managed to swing it back around to my desperate bid to fill my silly time on this earth with writings about cannibal bikers and the Silver State. Surely, that’s worth a bowl of oatmeal? As ever, thanks for reading and BUY MY BOOKS. They’re awesome. Awesome!
I wrote the following after receiving a rejection.
Then moi conceived a magnificent plan.
Here’s my ‘brilliant’ plan!!
I’ll write some stream of consciousness, totally woke prosepoemsmear and submit that to X submission opportunity! It will be lacking in actual grammar, structure and paternal literary merits! It will have no merit. None. Not a whiff of merit. I stayed highly aware of my own wokeness the entire time I typed that below. Did North Korea just flippin’ BOMB US?? Where is the vodka?
If I consider ‘murica right now…I’ll start eating my bad hair. I won’t bother with a mustard chaser this time.
Flapdoodle sexbugs of Ganderv55
CarLISLE gives nothing and I rot like a dream as we rut in the leaves beneath the tree of his mother. She brings us old toast and new coffee her hair on fire from daddysexjuice and we smell her burning but she pours us coffee and scolds us about jesus who is meek and mild and full of corn. mother moother you are old news and mother directs us like traffic cones into the river of my lovers who slap me with morality. i screamed could not find my way but my carLISLE advised me to take three aspirin and stuff them in my sexbug and oooooh i discovered the sands of my own breasts and i wept because i am not awake.
we went on the sidewalk found a cup and a dead idea, took both back in our backpack and put them in a cage because it’s all we know of high heels. dream on screamed moother and we dreamed on
until father gave us gum that smelled like cinnamon whores at low tide which created ghosts in our intestines that we farted out as ironic statements of purpose for ivy schools that never considered us contenders. I WORE A YELLOW FLAPDOODLE and nobody told me I WORE A YELLOW FLAPDOODLE and I wondered why no one told me because i posted the bread pictures and everyone hit the yes button and told me yes yes yes and squirted yes juice into my burning eyes. I tire to be brilliant but the diamonds turn to rodents in my kneecaps where slime shops for canned meat and mark down cancer drugs. WHY WON’T U SLAP MEE mmmooother asked as she sliced smelly lettuce for the eternal meal
and sister, my sister is dead yet sits on my right hand better than god or allah because she gives me pink gummy bears for my sexbug slit and doesn’t need them back to glue in her scrapbook where she once glued a live frog that begged her to traditional marry it and she told it no, it wasn’t fresh and that she wanted a turtle to lay eggs in her vast pulsing worldwomb. My sister puts her hair out to be sliced and my mother slices it slices and my sister marries the frog and glues herself in the scrapbook that’s how she died and yet how she lives because i can cut her shape from the pages and stick them to my eyes so she stares at me as i paddle over the rainbutt and into the dirk
but CarLISLE won’t say. Theres nothing there and I MADE HIM UP because father asked me to and we all obey we all obey
except the cat but the cat lives on some other plane thats not here at all poor cat.
77 oh 5 hump my leg like naughty poodles of elves left in the jupitor rain and all the numbers confuse me with yearning
so i dig up the cat and the cat doesnt scratch me because mooother
cut off its soul and used it for a suncatcher but the sun stays captured in my father who hangs strips of his love on the wall like narrow rewards won at turkey shoots.
run brother run
u hav no bro says car and i curl up and shud at it all but the Ganderv55 invasive me so i sigh thru the orgi and use vanilla soap and my cookie smell sells stocks so great men can shit with ease
Now, I received a rejection for, gulp, five poems. From a place that claims it’s a feminist haven for all things feminist. That might just be me adding zest to a dry story. M’kay. Normally, I react to rejections with tears, sobbing, why me o God screamings and a cross-country search for that perfect goat to sacrifice to Satan so I can cross that little threshold from unknown, obscure, nobody reads her shit writer to WRITER WHO DOESN’T GET THE FORM REJECTION LETTERS GOD FUCKING DAMN IT ALL TO HELL AND BACK ###$$$$$%^%^^^^^77&&*^%$&.
And then. I calm down about five minutes after that, ‘get over it’ and then cross that submission off in my book o’submissions. I keep a log of what I sent where because…I can’t recall why at this point, other than it seemed important to see all the rejections gathered in one place with the one or two YES THEY PICKED ME YES entries. I’m not a bookkeeper of any kind. I can screw up filling out forms faster than a jack rabbit on a date. Ha ha, shout out to Christmas Story.
“They” are doing a LIVE VERSION of this…with brand new actors. I. Wah. Why?? WHY HAS GOD DESERTED THE ENTIRE PLANET? Why would anyone think this was a good idea?? Just make a new Christmas movie! Hallmark does. Sure, their movies all seem like the same movie, but Hallmark is too smart to take on actual Christmas icons that should never ever be tampered with. That goes for that Jim Carrey travesty of the Grinch, too. WTF?? My eyeballs have never recovered. Hallmark, now…I’ll give them props for not milking the Christmas Story goat. [That was for you, Satan]
Yes, I am watching the Hallmark sugar-heavy fare. Shut up. You are, too. It’s like downing those Peep things. It’s the same thing. I don’t have to explain that, do I? You don’t even have to chew. Hallmark Christmas movies are like Peeps– no chewing involved. I should work in advertising. Go me!
Also–that super-feminist site found my stuff not feminist enough? What the…? I’m going to start writing characters that are…well, some vague threat about labeling my characters in the newest fashions and then actually writing about nice virgingals getting with shiny werewolves. Who brood. With nice hair. They brood and have nice hair. The girl/s fall down a lot and don’t think they’re pretty until the shiny werewolf fella…
Because that shit sells. Yeah. Because it’s a familiar tale and the reading public really seems to like familiar tales, no matter what bullshit they quiver out about wanting something ‘original’. Bwhaha ha ha!!! As if!!
Where was I before I jumped into a lake of utter self-loathing full of sarcastic catfish?
Novel. Ah. My novel is nearly finished for that November challenge thingie. I have about two more chapters, I reckon. I have NO IDEA WHAT THE ENDING IS and my inner lit professors tut at me and make those faces lit profs make. You know that face. That one.
It’s roughly forty thou words.
Which is good! I, of course, have let it ‘rest’ a couple days. I started a short story called the Antifa are Due on Maple Street, which is, yes, a shout sent toward the Twilight Zone zone. If you have no idea what I mean, then you probably need to stop being in a feminist mist all the time and watch a television show older than 2017. It’s a famous ep of a famous ole show– the Monsters are Due on Maple Street. It echoes very well the paranoia and fear of the ‘other’ that so infected American society so long ago. It’s just so quaint now!
Yes, I’m done being a sarcastic catfish. Now…catfish has some sort of meaning, too. I’m not that kind of catfish. I mean an actual catfish swimming around near the bottom of a murky river being snarky. Rather like Spongebob if written as a George Costanza or a Chandler Bing. [I’ll be there for yo–ooo—uuu….!]
I should delve into the political shitshow that has become ‘murica. I just start writing curse words. I see where people are ‘jokingly’ looking into building guillotines. You know, so the American peasants can chop off the aristocratic DC heads. We’re waiting for that whole checks and balances stuff to save us from Rapey McPussyhands and company. Yeah, except…those in power have to respect and actually follow those checks and balances for those to work effectively. So far, we’ve [also known as The Resistance] have a few marches and posted some memes. I think America, to get America back, is gonna have to take it to the next step.
We’re gonna have to get some dragons.
We’re also gonna have to overhaul poor ole Jesus. Maybe even invent a new, improved savior of America. Jesus is pretty malleable when it comes to makeovers, sure. But. I think we Americans can invent some sort of truly American Jesus that will unite us all when we have to band together to go after those dragons we foolishly brought in to rid us of some other stuff.
Jesus fighting dragons…that is so my next BIG WRITING PROJECT. Maybe in between the Hallmark fare and the hatewatching of the live Christmas Cash Cow AKA Christmas Story…I’ll begin an epic tale of Jesus versus dragons. Maybe a children’s story. A cute, non-threatening Jesus and cute, big-eyed, cuddly, non-threatening baby dragons that decide to not fight and have cookies instead in a show of fellowship, diversity, love and some other virtues that seem popular right now. Popular but not practiced.
Well, what to write this week. If anything to write this week. The world slumbers in the dog days of summer and nuthin’ is going on. Except the threat of nuclear annihilation and some other stuff, but hey…
I did write a very Mean Girls post but my better angels punched me in the face. So.
I’ve been doing submissions. Always a fun time. [That was sarcasm.] I did two this morn! Two. An excerpt from a novel entitled The Adventures of Grumpy Odin and Sexy Jesus. A one-act play about two star-crossed lovers at a Las Vegas bus stop, called Free Range Chickens. That one place did say you could submit excerpts from novels…and hey, I took them at their word.
It’s been a rather smoky caul over my tiny corner of the universe lately. Rather like being back in Shenyang City, China. That was heavy industrial pollution, this is just wildfire smoke. Or being in Beijing, which is even worse than Shenyang! I know! They are trying to ‘clean’ that all up now, that pollution over there in China. We here in America are prepared to take up the pollution slack, however! Yay! Can’t wait! I’m not bitter at all.
What have I been writing? Oh? Um. well, let’s kindly call it ‘crap’, shall we?
Yeah, don’t worry. I will not be smearing that clear-the-head writing here. It’s bad, trust me. Note: maybe I will. I have tons of it. It might be the next ripoff of Games of Thrones meets LOTR with a splash of Story of O. Intrigued???
Ahem, anyway!! It has the depth of My Pretty Pony fanfiction. Not that I’ve read any. I’m assuming most of that is unreadable claptrap. I’m also taking a break from politics, life and life’s politics via said Claptrap Crap, which helps yours truly do some very minor coping.
I also now have Ibuprofin and have resorted to using the morning’s old coffee to make iced coffee in the afternoon, because I’m a resourceful little kitty-cat. And, poured over onion-flavored ice [don’t ask], leftover morning iced coffee treat is…well, something I can drink that’s not water-flavored. It’s the little things, baby. I’m jonesing for black cherry Kool-Aid, by the way. Yes, I made some sun tea! Geez! I found some ancient tea bags I got at the Dollar Store. Yum.
Now for a Serious Writer Gal update: I went back into the third book of my trilogy wannabe and let the chips fall where they wished. I’ve got the ending [note– it’s a sad ending for right now. I am letting that soak in the inner crock-pot gravy, don’t worry!], so where was I? I have the ending, more or less, and now just need the beginning and middle! [As the ‘story’ keeps shifting about like a damn Garden of Eden snake. Eve couldn’t have crucified that damn snake and…anyway.] Whee!! Woot woot!
Saint Lysette and Bloody Alicecooks in my inner crock-pot. It heats up slowly, I can leave it all day, come back in the evening and viola, meal. If you don’t know what a crock-pot is or why you can leave it all day…Google is your friend. [Not if you have a vagina, though…tee hee.]
It will be cooler. Hopefully, we won’t be fighting for scraps in the bomb shelters. [I don’t even have mine dug yet!!! Fuck. Sonofabitch!]
Football, and pumpkins, and dying leaves, oh yes! The blankets come back out. Rain returns. We’re supposed to get another bad winter. I should dig out my mittens and scarves right now! Or go dig a bomb shelter. And find some, what, lead? Maybe line it with mangina juice scraped off King Magical Pumpkincunt? I had to get one shot in, come on.
Hey, if anyone wants to read Free Range Chickens or, um, like, produce it…HERE YA GO!!