Okay let’s take a break from our regularly scheduled programming to peak at a passage in Anna’s journal. It’s just sitting there, on her bed. And she’s headed off to the city and won’t get back for at least a more few hours. Come on. What she won’t know won’t hurt her:
April 14, 2016 ~
Content Warning: my pants are off, I’ve got a bottle of wine, and there’s an angry mourning dove pecking at my window. The time is 2:31 pm.
What do you do when you’re not inspired and suddenly you feel the subtle anxiety of what-ifs brewing in you, those familiar ones, the ones that say, “You don’t know how to construct a good plot. You’ll never be as good as Mark Twain, let alone Sam Clemens. You’re a hack. They’ll know it. They’ll see right through you. They’ll tear you to shreds with a little red pen and laugh you all the way to… to… see you can’t even come up with a clever end to this sentence, so you’re resorting to meta-observation of yourself. You can’t even seem to shake the creeping suspicion that the voice is true, that there is no coherence to your words and getting drunk isn’t going to help you get there.” These are momentary confessions, a necklace of non sequiturs, a string of graying pearls, pearls that came from the only kind of clam in the universe this author will eat: and it doesn’t swim in the ocean. It swims in victoria’s secret lace panties. It swims between thighs that touch tenderly on the order of limestone bluffs. It bleeds against the light of the Moon. And renders the World a possibility.
Matthew Mconaughey was my favorite ninja turtle until I turned eleven and I discovered that he wasn’t a ninja turtle.
My likes include lying down beneath trees that do not provide enough shade because they grow atop million year old mountains, amidst million year old dry air, amidst a 300 day Sun that refuses to hit the showers, include writing in ornate journals bought from Barnes and Noble, include talking to animals, include ball caps, and jogger pants, include sneakers and human connection, not that the two have any True correlation except that the author felt like giving the Oxford Comma a breather. Hey, here’s a fun fact: I’ve never seen a tornado in real life. Isn’t that a shame?
Here’s another fun fact: the tongue of a full-grown giraffe is approximately seventy-six inches smaller than the penis of a full-grown Blue Whale.
Another: In a fifteen-mile long race between a honeybee and a Segway, the honeybee would win.
Okay, that’s it for fun facts. Now it’s time for the weather with Tom Weddleman. Tom.
Hey everyone, it’s me. Tom Weddleman, with the weather. Today instead of a cold front the entire western hemisphere is experiencing what many are calling apocalyptic meteorological conditions. But not to worry, as long as you’re prepared to live comfortably in your basement for the next seventy years, inbreeding your family into oblivion, then you should be just fine. Otherwise I’d suggest going outside and doing something stupid.
I said I’ve never seen a tornado in my life, but I’m thinking now’s my chance, Tom.
-That was the last thing I ever said.
I’m writing this from the comfort of a room on a melon shaped planet in the Taurus constellation called Mudri. And my chair is made of the finest light strands one can acquire in this star system. On our planet, light can be bent and manipulated in such a way that we can build entire houses out of it, thread lavish blouses, and glowing shower curtains. But then again, on our planet everything is vibrating so fast it’s as if we’re not really here. I remember when I lived on Earth and I couldn’t see a damned thing worth seeing. No wait. That’s not true. That’s not true at all. I think what I miss most about Earth are the sunsets. Oh my god those sunsets. Have you ever seen the sky blush orange and purple? Have you ever seen the Heavens unfold like Hawaiian hibiscus over champagne seas? Have you ever seen the Sun dip his toes against the erect nipple of ancient mountaintops? I have. And gosh damn was it the cat’s pajamas!