I’m supposed to present “Her Secondhand Smoke” at the Sigma Tau Delta convention in February. I’m going to explodeeeeeee!
An octogenarian, a psychic, she’d met at Starbucks came to Thanksgiving dinner.
He told me that his favorite ex-wife threw a grandfather clock at him. It was an antique, an heirloom, and she hurled it at him as punishment for waking her from a nap.
He told me that he knew all about lesbians.
Just spent an hour and a half working on a page for my thesis, then accidentally smeared ink all over it, now it is destroyed. askldjfaksjfakjdfkalsjdfklasjfkdajf. I hate everything.
I have a burgeoning migraine, and I really just want to lay on my bed in my bathrobe in the quiet, but my roommates just burst in like, “Surprise! We’re home, and we brought five of the loudest people we know! We’ll be in the living room, simultaneously singing badly, playing Youtube videos at max volume, and shouting in British accents with the TV on in the background, I hope you don’t mind!”
THE PANEL-BY-PANEL 30-PAGE DESCRIPTION OF MY THESIS (WITH DIALOGUE) IS NOW COMPLETE!
I SHALL MOVE ON TO PENCILLING!
I feel so accomplished.
I buried my mind
in her body and left
it there to rot or
maybe to blossom