I have an entry in the Writer's Digest Short Short Story Competition, but I'm not holding my breath. I like living too much. My first story is an illusive spirit changing its form every time I try to drag it into reality. The second story was too easy, I thought, but I was wrong. An addiction to perfection is causing me to edit and re-edit the original until I have convinced myself that it is flawed beyond redemption, and will sink to the bottom of the submission list. This blob of matter in my head needs a rest from its obsession of perfecting imperfection, but I'm afraid I might have to flush myself down the toilet to accomplish that feat of impossibility. Meanwhile, I'm taking a fiftieth look at my first phantom of a story, so beware - you might never ever hear from me again anytime soon.
All marveled at the lump that was on Andee's side
when removed it was found to be quite green inside
a biopsy was ordered to the tune of 90 buckaroos :(
to see if an alien invasion had occurred in his sleep
no such luck -
he's just a healthy, unwealthy, brain foggy old guy ;)
Lacey's on special supplements to hopefully correct her T cell's counts.
I'm looking for an organization called Pepsiholics Anonymous. If you happen to know of any near Nashville, PLEASE clue me in. I haven't had a drink for 75 days that feel like 38 hours each, and every time I walk past a Pepsi display it cry's out my name like a past lover scorned. Help!