January 29, 2014

Hey there, ho there. How’s it going? How are you? Well, I hope.

Today’s post is a mish-mash of topics, so apologies now for the discombobulated nature of it.

First up, a little about me and where I am at the moment. As you’re well aware, my job situation is not improving. I have none, try as I might to land myself one. My unemployment benefits have exhausted and I’m also broke as a joke, but I’m not laughing. I have lived with a friend and her husband since June. What was just supposed to be a few weeks until I found a job and got money to move out has turned into months. I decided I was essentially mooching off them, and decided to give them a much-needed break, so I temporarily moved out. I know what it’s like for a married couple to have a roommate. It tends to interfere with…things. (wink)

I am now staying with my dad in a tiny town about an hour and a half away from Lincoln. I’m going to be honest here: I love my dad, but sweet Jesus, if I don’t find myself a g.d. job soon, I’m going to pull a Lizzie Borden. I don’t want to be here at all. The other night over dinner, my dad asked me, “have you ever considered moving back here permanently?” I looked my father, the man who is half responsible for giving me life, dead in his eyes and said rather bluntly, “fuck no.” “…well, okay then.”

I know that was harsh and rude, but no effing way in effing H will I ever move back to a small town. I realized over the years living in the metropolis that is Lincoln, I’ve become a person of convenience and being away from that convenience is brutal. Take now, for instance. It’s almost 1pm, I’m hungry, and think a greasy fast food hamburger and freedom fries sounds like the most wonderful thing ever. But, oh ho ho, guess what? I’d have to drive either thirty miles east or fifty miles north to do so. Ridiculous. The town I’m staying in does have a Subway, though. Cool. Subway. Eat fresh.

I’ve spent the last two days redoing my résumé, brushing it up a bit, making it shiny and stuff, and applying for jobs. Any job. Well, I guess I can’t say “any” with absolute certainty–I still refuse food service. Not that I think it’s below me or anything like that. I slopped pizzas together in a convenience store kitchen for almost two years. I’ve done that work before. I’m talking more like wait staff jobs. I can’t do it. I know I can’t. One bad customer being a total cockfart to me will ruin me and I’ll start crying and I just can’t do it. I applied for retail jobs, and of course, more medical jobs. I busted my hump. This move is temporary and I’m going to make g.d. sure of it. Sorry, Dad.

So this new-found fire lit under my rumpus has seemed to awaken a part of me that I oft forget I own. Confidence. In general, I lack it. I tend to self-denigrate myself daily. That has to stop. Revamping my résumé made me realize I really do have some genuinely great accomplishments in my working career and listing off all my skills and qualifications made me go, “well, I’ll be dipped. Employers would be foolish to not hire this.” And that job confidence has leached over to my person life, as well.

I got to thinking of a guy I dated very briefly during the summer of 2012. I met him on the Okay,Cupid site and at first, it was fine or whatever. Did I think he and I would end up together? No. I have this odd thing called intuition and it kicked in after our first date. He was fun to hang out with, sure, but outside of that, eh. We dated for about two weeks and then he stopped texting. Spidey Sense Activate. I sent a message asking what up. You okay? He was fine, thanks. Just thinking about things. Like what? Where you and I are going. And? I don’t want to see you anymore. …Okay. Any reason? I’m not attracted to you physically. Ouch. I have this ideal woman and you’re not it. You’re not 5’5″, 125 pounds, and blonde.

Holy eff, dude. At the time, it hurt. It hurt a lot. What confidence I had been ruined. I’ve always been so self-conscious about myself anyway, so for this choad to attack my appearance like that stung. Thanks, man. Thanks a lot.

But I was thinking about this today for whatever reason–oh yeah, nothing better to do than think–and perhaps it’s my sudden clarity or what-have-you, I thought to myself and wish I had said this to him, but moot point now. Anyway, I wish I had said to him, “well, you know what? That’s fine. I’m 5’11”, almost twice that weight, and a bottled redhead, and I have the size cans  your “type” would have to pay thousands of dollars for. And while that doesn’t match your ideal woman profile, I match someone else’s. I refuse to let your opinion of me and how I look effect me. Peace out, guy. Good luck to you.”

Seriously. I wish I had said this, but I’m saying it now, and better late than never. I always have had this negative perception of my body. I am too tall. I’m overweight. My teeth are crooked on the bottom. I have stretch marks thanks to an enormous growth spurt during puberty and weight gain. I think my legs are stumpy and I have a funky scar on my right knee. I always hated my top lip; it forms these two weird little points in the middle. My butt is flat-ish and kind of wide. The list goes on.

But today, I was sitting in bed, my legs outstretched before me, and doggone it, I have pretty decent gams. Muscular and firm. My scar is awesome. My knee isn’t awesome, but the scar is pretty cool. And Lethal Weapon taught me scars are a turn-on, so yeah buddy. I am tall. I like being tall. I can reach things. While I am overweight and do need to work on killing some excess weight for my knee’s sake, I’m shapely and curvaceous and have a nice rack. Gravity nor childbirth have gotten to me there. My teeth may no be perfectly straight, but at least I have teeth and add a bit of quirk? I don’t know…this one is actually kind of difficult to make positive. My stretch marks are just there. I can’t do anything about them, so I accept them as part of me. My lips look pretty effing good covered in red lipstick and sorry, Mom, but I’ve never had any complaints about how I use them, either. I’m working on my ass by doing squats. The wide thing is unavoidable since I’m freaking German and my structure is sturdy. I like that–I’m sturdy.

I also have fabulous hair. It’s thick, it’s long-ish, and I effing love my hair. I’m letting my natural color grow out and I can see patches of beautiful silver strands and I’m so excited to rock a head full of silver-streaked hair, it isn’t even funny.

My eyes range from grey to blue-grey and my former spouse used to tell me how amazing he thought they were. Gross.

So, you see, I have it in me to be confident in myself. I do. Why I let myself ever not be is beyond me. I’m working on all this. I know confidence is an attractive quality to have. I sometimes hesitate to exude the confidence lest I seem arrogant and self-centered, but sometimes, dang it, sometimes you have to let yourself be that way.

That about wraps it up. I’m working hard, doing what I can to make my situation better so I can get back to Lincoln soon. And I will.

I’m confident.

As always,


January 21, 2014

Please forgive me while I vent a bit.

I’ve been on unemployment since the first of November, so roughly three months. I was insured for about $3,500. I get paid weekly. As of tomorrow, my benefits are completely exhausted and my payment is less than half of what I normally get. I called my best friends at the Department of Labor and was on hold for thirty minutes before I could talk to a human.

I asked what I need to do, aside from getting a damn job.

“Normally, we’d file a federal extension for emergency benefits, but as of December, it expired, but there’s a motion in the senate to reconsider approval, so just keep filing weekly and maybe it’ll get passed.”

Ooooohhhhh suuuuupppppeeeeeerrrrrrr. Unemployed and fucked over by The Man. In the words of Chandler Bing, “could I *BE* any luckier?”

No. No I cannot.

So. How about a job, eh? Hmm? Please? No? Okay.

That’s it. Thanks for reading.


The One Where I Had A Very Specific Dream And It Kind Of Scared Me

I had a dream last night I killed myself.

It was painfully detailed.

I wrote out a long and very specific letter, categorized into why I was doing it, what I used to kill myself, a section tying up all my affairs, e.g. my car payment is through this company, my car insurance is through this company, the password to my laptop, my banking account numbers, what to do with all of my things (my personal items are split between Lincoln and Hebron; basics are here in Lincoln, all my books, important photos, etc at Dad’s house), and then I wrote a quick apology to each person I felt needed one. To my mom and dad, I’m sorry to make you bury a child. To my brother, I’m sorry you don’t have a sister anymore. To my friends, I’m sorry for taking a friend away from you, but please feel free to go through my stuff to pick out something to remind you of me.

After I wrote the letter, I walked down the hallway to a closet, found pills, walked to the kitchen to grab booze, and then walked back to the guest room and laid down on the bed and took the pills and drank the booze.

I woke up from the dream in the same laying position I had been in my dream. That was the most unnerving thing about it all, I think. I opened my eyes and actually thought, “well shit, that didn’t work after all.” But then as I became more coherent, I realized it was just a dream. A really, really specific dream. Eerie. And I remember feeling so lucid during it, as well. I wasn’t crying or distraught by what I was doing, I went through everything very methodically, precisely, and detail-oriented.

My brain is an odd beast, my subconscious a jerk. I had two separate conversations about suicide yesterday, so my sleeping self decided, “hey, that’s a cool thing to dream about. Here you go.” Thanks, brain. This is why no one likes you.

I want to reiterate that I have no plans of causing this to happen. I’m sad and upset about things in my life at the moment, but I’m not that sad and upset. I’m not in the same dark place I found myself over three years ago. I’m not dealing with the end of a nearly 10 year relationship and marriage. I’m not dealing with alcohol abuse as a truly terrible way to “help” with these things. I haven’t found out my husband had cheated on me, nor am I cheating on my husband. Three Years Ago Erin is vastly different from the Erin I am today.

I do, however, still get overly moody and emotional and don’t deal with those emotions properly. Normal people talk to other people when they feel sad, lonely, worthless, etc. I internalize. I don’t want to bother anyone with my petty things. You all have your own issues to deal with and don’t need me and mine to add to yours. I’ll be fine. Force that smile and stuff your feelings down like you always do, Erin. LOL.

I obviously need work. It’s hard, though. It’s hard admitting you have a major issue like that, that your brain refuses to operate properly or that you feel like you can’t talk to anyone. I know I have people to talk to. I know I do. I get yelled at for not talking to them, but there’s something inside me that doesn’t want me to. I want to. I want to spend hours chatting away, and there are few people I can do that with. Alcohol has to be involved, sadly. I hate that. I hate that I feel I need to lower my inhibitions to open up and I’m sure others hate that, too. I don’t know; we never talk about it. (ba dum ching.)

This is why I write. I may over-share, I may divulge too much personal information in too public of a venue, but this is how I choose to do it for now. Some day I hope to communicate openly and freely, but until then…

As always, thanks for reading.


P.S.  I’m sorry if this scared anyone. I was just retelling a dream. I’m fine to the extent I won’t do something stupid, I promise.

To Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

I don’t really know how to begin this, or if I should even start at all, given the fact what happened is so fresh…just a few hours old. But if I don’t express these particular feelings and emotions now while I have them, they’ll be gone, maybe in another few hours. Maybe as quickly as they began, or I may always feel like this. It’s hard to say. I find it ironic I’m writing about feelings and emotions since I’m so completely inept at discussing them in person.

When my parents divorced and had their new spouses, a very frustrated father of mine said to me, “you never talk. That hurts me you feel you can’t talk to me.” I always found this funny–odd, not ha ha–that he said this to me. I grew up in a household where discussing feelings wasn’t commonplace, so to express dismay for a learned behavior nearly 30 years later confuses me. I’m glad you had found someone to whom you could be open to and she back, but growing up, father of mine, you were as I am now. Children learn by observation of their parents. I learned from you. From you, okay? I learned it from watching you! 

However, Anonymous, I know you’ve come to understand a few things about me over time. One is previously mentioned. And two, because of one, I find other outlets to express my emotions and feelings. I’m not a sociopath; I don’t injure small animals because my daddy didn’t love me. I am not devoid of emotion. I don’t know how to express it properly verbally, so I take to the written form. Writing is methodical and precise. If I write the wrong thing, I can immediately delete it, and no one knows what I’ve written except me. With words, once you say them, there’s no taking them back. You can apologize for what was said either out of anger or fear or rejection, but harsh words are absorbed. We long to deflect them, and try desperately to do so, but the reality of it is, words can only be absorbed, it’s what we choose to do with them after that’s imperative. Let them get to us, to be a part of us, or to compartmentalize them so they don’t hurt us. Maybe that’s the purpose of the appendix–it’s a harsh words collector. I’ll alert the media on this important discovery.

Always joking, this one. Can I not be serious for once? Sure I can. And I will in my own good time. In this letter, in fact. Be patient; it’ll present itself shortly.

Anonymous, I’m writing to you today because of what happened. I’m writing to tell you in a way that’s most comfortable for me that I’m going to continue keeping you on the pedestal I’ve created for you. I know you think I’m foolish for doing so. I’m human. I’m fallible. You’re setting yourself for disappointment and heartache putting people where they don’t belong. To me, this is exactly why you belong there. You realize you’re going to disappoint and cause pain. You realize your human ways. It’s those who don’t accept this part of themselves who I worry about. I put you there for a reason, Anonymous. You think you don’t deserve it, but you aren’t me and you don’t know how to see yourself through my eyes. Trust me, you belong there. If that makes me foolish or naïve, so be it.

I told a friend about what happened, Anonymous. My friend, showing loyalty and offering some comfort, said, “you deserve someone better.” I’ve always hated that expression. It’s not true in the way that no one is really ever better than the next, it’s just that some people offer more than others. That doesn’t make Person B better than Person A, I don’t think. I stood up for you. Who else could be better than you? You’re the one who makes me happy. (P.S. This is the thing I probably shouldn’t be writing about, or probably should be. Hard to tell. It’s what I feel in this moment.)

Anonymous, you up on that pedestal, made me happy. If this makes you uncomfortable, I’m not sorry. I don’t think enough people tell you this, or if they do, you don’t believe them. How could you possibly make anyone happy when you express unhappiness in your own life? You station in life has nothing to do with how my heart would feel when you’d smile at me. I don’t care about your material things, they don’t measure your worth to me. How you pat your knee to the rhythm of the music playing matters to me. The way you laugh when you find something amusing matters to me.

Again, I’m sorry this is coming from written not spoken words. I’m sorry my lack of words made you uncomfortable. I’m sure this comes as little-to-no shock, but that isn’t the first time I’ve heard that. This isn’t the first time my lack of words has ruined something. The last person who told me they hated me not talking also felt uncomfortable by me being so quiet. He didn’t understand why it was so hard for me to not just open my mouth and speak. It isn’t so fucking difficult. Not talking makes it seem like you don’t care and that you’re cold-hearted. That couldn’t be any further from the truth but that’s a moot point now. No use scrutinizing that or this situation anymore.

This is all I have to write, Anonymous. It’s time for me to retreat once again to heal my heart, to listen to the saddest songs I know and weep for what can’t be. I told you to not be alarmed if I become cold and distant to you now. I may do so, but it’ll give a better view of you on the pedestal.



Open Road

Jane likes to drive. There’s nothing better than an open stretch of road. The further you go, the more you realize how far you’ve gone. It’s kind of a kitten-hanging-from-a-tree-branch motivational poster mentality, but it’s true. You have a way to go yet, but look at what’s behind you. Hang in there, baby. 

Jane watches the car’s odometer tick off the miles and reminds herself  she’s due for an oil change soon. The machine she’s navigating has close to 140,000 miles on it and Jane is responsible for a fair majority of them. The previous owner of her car had left it in immaculate condition and it was a steal of a deal. Since it’s been in Jane’s care, maintenance and appearance have suffered a bit and Jane feels bad the once impressive-looking vehicle is starting to look its eight years, but as long as it continues to run without any major issues, it’ll be good for a few more years. As if to coax another one hundred thousand miles out of the car, Jane runs her hand along the steering wheel and coos at it, you’ve been a good girl. Who’s my good girl? You are…funny how we anthropomorphize inanimate objects.

Jane recalls with a smile the loving relationship she had with her first laptop, Harry. Jane and Harry spent many years together until a tragic accident occurred involving a full bottle of wine, a cat, and a Halloween mask worn by Jane’s boyfriend. It isn’t what you think–Jane’s boyfriend drank the entire bottle of wine, got completely inebriated and put on a Halloween mask that looked like some sort of demented demon. Jane’s cat, Tank, was sitting on the keyboard of the laptop and when he saw Dave stumble into the living room with the mask, he got so scared he peed all over the computer. But that’s not the worst of it; Dave tried to console the scared kitty but thanks to a poorly ventilated mask and too much booze, Dave overheated and got nauseous and ended up puking on the laptop, as well. It was decided in the morning when the damage was fully assessed that it was best just to cut losses and retire the computer. It’s buried in the backyard next to a pair of neon tetra fish, Goldie and Han.

Jane is driving with no destination in mind, which she does often. Road trips are a favorite activity of hers. She never really plans for them to happen, they just occur on a whim, usually when Jane makes her weekly coffee shop run on Sunday morning. Fresh paper cup of dark roast with a shot of espresso with cream and two sugars cooling in the cup holder and as soon as Jane pulls away from the drive-thru window is when decisions are made. Go home to lounge around the house or hit the road? It’s about a 50/50 chance for either, and today, driving won.

Jane is fond of going east toward the Atlantic or south toward the Gulf. Granted, she lives in a totally landlocked state, but she likes to pretend she’s close enough to these bodies of water and who knows? Maybe one day she’ll actually drive that far. Jane’s been to the Gulf of Mexico and to the Pacific ocean, but it’s been a goal of hers to dip her toes into the frigid waters of the north Atlantic for some time. She has a romanticized notion of Maine and pictures herself walking along the beach with a bouncing, bounding dog chasing seagulls down the coastline and holding the hand of the one she loves. The breeze off the water messing their hair, the water creeping up the denim legs of their jeans and getting their knees wet. They stop to pick up shells and a piece of driftwood so they can write in the sand. Jane plus Dave equals love forever. The tide will come in and wash the words away, but that doesn’t mean their love isn’t going to last; it means their love is being carried out to sea and there it will remain forever, rolling on the waves.

The impromptu road trips are usually happy and a good time for Jane, but sometimes, they are used to load up her car with all her worries, doubts, and fears and to take them far away from Jane and leave them out in the open to quit bothering her. Kind of like when you were a kid and on a trip with your family and you and your little sister were arguing in the backseat and your dad, who had just about enough of you two and your shit, threatens to pull the car over to make you walk. Meant to be a scare tactic and sometimes you see two crying children walking along the highway, clutching each others’ hands tight, as their parents drive down the road. You know they’ll come back, but what if they don’t come back? What if your dad really is that tired of your shit that he and your mom have decided to give up on you and your sister and start over and have to new kids? These kids will surely be better than these other two. If not, same routine–pack up the station wagon under the guise of a family vacation, but really, it’s a kid ditch. Imagine all the parentless children wandering the countryside with their naughty siblings. Eventually, they all have to find each other and form their own civilization. The Naughty Ones, they call themselves. Misfit kids. The abandoned ones. Deep shit, man.

This particular road trip was a ditching trip for Jane. Life was kind of dumb at the moment and Jane wants to rid herself of the dumbness. Her mother worries about her on these sorts of trips. Even though she’s a grown woman who has made decisions for herself for some time now, Jane makes sure she tells at least one person she’s travelling for the day, you know, just in case something happens, like a flat tire or vapor lock or a hitchhiker pick-up attempt gone terribly wrong. Jane has never actually done the latter, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t be a possibility at some point. Anyway, these trips are the ones Jane’s mom gets nervous for, and with good cause. A few years ago, after a particularly nasty break-up with her boyfriend, Jane went on a drive and tried to kill herself by attempting to wreck her car. One of her trip routes includes a very long bridge over a very impressive river and Jane was going to drive her car over the side and into the water below. Turns out this was easier concocted in her depressed mind than done because it failed. All that happened was Jane banged up the passenger side bumper and tore the side mirror off. Oh well. If Jane had been serious about killing herself in the first place, it would have been with a more foolproof method, not a car accident. But Jane wasn’t serious about it. She thought she was, but thinking back to that period of her life, she gets a little embarrassed by her dramatics. Hindsight is 20/20, and I’m Hugh Downs.

Jane decides to switch up her route today and heads west to the Pacific, or as close as she can get to it, which still leaves about 1,000 miles of road, but again, it’s the thought that counts. She chooses a particular CD in the player and waits for the song to start. Once it does, the familiar goosebumps wash over her body, starting at the top of her head and dripping down to her toes. She starts crying almost immediately afterwards. The only thing scarier than sneezing while driving is crying. Jane’s vision becomes blurred and she reaches up with her long fingers and wipes the tears away, taking some mascara and eyeliner with her. She glances at herself in the rearview mirror and sees her damage and laughs despite her sadness in the moment. Nice, she says through her tears. Once her vision clears, she focuses back on the open road. She’s going to drive this sadness out her if it’s the last thing she does.

You have a way to go yet, but look at how far you’ve gone. Hang in there, baby. 


I haven’t been taking my medication. At first, it was forgetfulness, now it’s  just plain stubbornness. Like a scorned woman berating her cheating lover as she walks out the door to their apartment, I say to myself, I don’t need you in my life. I’m fine without you. I’m a better person not having you around me. The liberation is powerful. I don’t need some overpaid doctor telling me I need medication to help make my brain function, thankyouverymuch. I was a happy kid; why can’t I be a happy adult?

I empty my medicine cabinet of all the brain chemicals. I take a sick, demented joy as I swipe my hand across the shelves and watch the plastic bottles bounce and tumble around the porcelain sink, spiraling into a heap by the drain. I pick up each bottle, unscrew the cap, and ceremoniously dump the contents into the toilet, the white and blue pills float on the surface. After each bottle is empty, I salute the contents of the bowl, and pull the handle to flush them into the sewer. I think for a moment of where the water ends up and some poor, unsuspecting deer taking a drink from the stream and suddenly being pumped full of selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors and I chuckle. Maybe Bambi won’t be so sad about his mother dying now.

I gather all the empty pill bottles and dump them into the garbage can, proud of my new-found freedom. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and stare at myself intensely. I grab the edge of the mirror and lean in close, my nose almost touching the smooth, cool surface.

“You’re going to be all right. Fuck the medicine. You. Are. Going. To. Be. All. Right.”

I give myself another hard look, knit my eyebrows together, clench my jaw, and nod. I lean back away from the mirror and then flash a toothy grin.

January 18, 2014

Goodness me, it’s been a while since I’ve written. I’d like to say it’s because I’ve been busy doing a number of exciting and wonderful things, or that I’ve started a new job and have been so tired that the thought of writing has vexed me, but really, it’s a combination of laziness and not knowing what to write. Correction: I know what to write, I just don’t know how to write it, which is an odd confession coming from me. Writing is like Jell-O–there’s always room for both.

I’ve tried to read more books lately and made a goal of reading a book a week during the year as I’ve noticed over the last several, my book reading has taken a tragic decline. I blame this on a few things. The first being Dave Eggers. I read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius two years ago and it is one of the best things I’ve ever read and I’m in love with Eggers’ prose and the way he manipulates the words on the page and I also hate Eggers because now, I find it difficult to start reading a book because it isn’t Dave. I also blame social media. Being unemployed still and alone most of my day, which is great to an extent, but I need some sort of social interaction on a daily basis, despite my introversion. Facebook helps fulfill that need. So while I’m busy writing quip-y status posts and sharing photos and memes, I’m neglecting my reading and writing time.

It’s been said you can’t be a good writer unless you read and this is true. By filling your brain with others words, you end up honing your own writing skills. Or at least that’s my take on it and I’m smart, so I’m going to stick to that. But I also think you tend to take on the personality of the author to whom you’re reading. For example, I like to think that all the years during my adolescence that I spent reading Stephen King novels, I have his voice in my prose. He isn’t serious in his writing in the way that he’s verbose and uses big, fancy words; he’s simple but yet concise in what he’s writing. His imagery is fantastic and I always transport myself into his world. I loved reading The Talisman just for that reason. It’s a great novel as well as so crazy good in describing what’s going on. I love that. I also love that I have a solid enough imagination that I can easily transport myself into the worlds being created for me. That’s the sign of a truly amazing writer, as well.

Right now, I’m reading Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk and I also envy his writing. He’s crass and crude and a helluva fine writer. My favorite line of the book so far is “…she was wearing a shade of lipstick you’d expect to see at the base of a penis.” Rude? Kind of. But goddamn it, is it brilliant. It’s one of those lines I wish I had written. And I’m happy to report that by reading ol’ Chuck, the writer side of my brain is starting to turn over and chug to life once again. I’m getting ideas for short stories. Plans are coming together. I want to dabble in more…fictitious short stories…? That sounds silly, but let me explain. I’ve always considered my writings “non-fiction fiction,” meaning a good chunk of what I write about is based on life, I just gussy it up or change details or treat the event like it really was a work of fiction and not an actual thing that happened to me. I want to give a go at more fictionalized stories and this sounds odd, but more eccentric shorts, as well. I also want to give romance a try. Not corset peelers or any of the mindless schlock Danielle Steele poops out, but think of writing along the lines of Perks of Being A Wallflower-type prose. “We accept the love we think we deserve” sort of lines, something more heart-on-sleeve-ish. I attribute reading a lot of this fellow Tyler Knott Gregson on Pinterest (shush it). He’s a poet and he does this thing called “Typewriter Series” which is his work written out in old typeface and it’s gorgeous stuff. Take a look for yourself.

My heart...

My heart…

The hopeless romantic in me is just swooning now. Typewriters and words like this? Oh my gosh. Melting. I think I can come up with something like this myself, or I really, really, really want to try. Writing like this is a guilty pleasure of mine. I’m not always all Bret Easton Ellis slasher/sexual depravity prone. I like stuff like this from time to time. Gross, E. 

I just have a niggling doubt in my head, though, that if I attempt this sort of prose, it’ll come off as sounding seriously contrived and like I’m trying far too hard, or that I’ll come off as some sort of creeper, as you really can’t generate this sort of material without an inspiration. I have it, I’m just nervous my words will do more harm than good, I guess. It’s happened before, and I’d like to avoid that from happening again.

That’s all from me for now. I wanted to take a quick breather from reading to write a little posty post and, I confess, I know this is my 200th post and it was annoying me I hadn’t written anything, so I figured I’d write a puff piece to get me to it. I’m terrible!

As usual, thanks for reading.