ageluso
They bring mountains up from the ground. They create landscapes like the world has never seen.
It felt like I hailstorm but the brightly colored pellets hitting the ground and my face were definitely not hail. As I continued to be assaulted by the sky's diarrhea, I knelt and picked one up. Licked it.
Jelly beans.
They're jelly beans.
The goddamn bell tolls right outside my window. For whomever it's tolling, I hope they get their ass up and out or hit the snooze button.
I hadn't accepted his offer. I knew it came with strings he wasn't going to tell me about until the end. I normally don't mind his strings, but something about the glint in his eye, the tilt of his head, and the blood on his suit told me I might not like these strings. And I don't like to take those kind of chances.
In high school I asked my mom for a purity ring. It was something a lot of my friends were getting -- I hung with the super cool "Youth Group" crowd, and I wanted to act like the lot of them. I may have just wanted the jewelry and I knew my mom would get it for me. She said, "Oh, yes, absolutely, I will find the money," or something along those lines. I didn't end up getting one, which is probably for the best. It would be tarnished as fuck by now.
I don't hate the sound like everyone else. Nails on a chalkboard' is always said to be the worst sound imaginable -- like a horrific screeching that shatters your mind. I find it rather pleasant.
I feel a rumble in my chest, but this time I know it's coming from the frustration that this is the same word as yesterday. "Yar-har-har," is what's in my heart about it. I don't know where that came from but there it is. Yar-har-fuckidy-fucking-har.
I feel a rumbling in my chest. I know, I know, that's not where a bodily rumble is supposed to come from and should probably "consult my physician" or whatever. The point is: I have a rumble in my chest and it makes me want to do unruly things. To that man. And not good unruly, either.
I think a lot of people fear edits. I do to a degree. But I also love receiving them, because they're aimed at making me and my writing better. I always learn from them. Even though I like to think of myself as someone who takes criticism well, and learns from all her experiences...I'm really not. I'm just good at internalizing things. But edits on my writing I'm weirdly okay with. I think it's because myself and the editor have all the same goals -- to make my writing as good as possible.
I've never been as crafty as my mother. At least not in terms of arts and crafts. But I like to think I'm crafty in other ways. More subtle ways. It'd be fun to knit or scrapbook or make papermache...whatevers. But I think my brand of crafty is more useful, and I'm glad that if I could only be one type, I'm the type of crafty that I am. *Evil laugh*.
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