It was a dark and stormy month.
My Writer’s Anonymous group was living up to it’s un-name. My soul groped like a fat shiny banana slug for a purpose. That’s an exaggeration…. Not a purpose; any purpose. The least purpose the better, the less likely to choke a banana slug the best.
The worst of it was not feeling the angst, drama, and sheer horror of claiming to be a writer. I should have known better - but I didn’t - and that was the worse than the worst of it. I knew I was losing my grip so I snorted a shimmering glittering crystalline line of coke.
I should have, could have, would have known better: My dealer was an asshole. He had sold me table salt. Cheap table salt at that. And to add insult to insult, it was not kosher.
Why does this always happen. No question mark, my keyboard jammed months ago, leaving me without even the ability to question things. Like life. Like death. Like every goddamn thing in between. But worse than that, how would anyone know. That was a question. That was the question. Dammit, there goes the underscore.
Great concept - underscore. Under score as in not scoring enough. As chronically as I had under scored this last month - do you know that was dark and stormy. Oh yes, I had that in the title, my bad. It was a statement, not a question by the way, just so you know and I hope you do because statements that go on too long often become run on sentences, at least many if not most of the time Period
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