I haven’t been writing much lately, as those of you who notice such things may have noticed. (Although I like to think you’re all out frolicking in the sun instead of noticing.) And here’s why: I can’t think of a single damned thing to write.
Life is good and unfortunately good is kind of boring to write about, so I can only imagine it’s that much more boring to read about. And I don’t really want to inflict that on you, my darling readers. Me, I’m happy as a clam. (Who made that saying up? It’s idiotic. Do clams even have feelings? Aren’t they just slime?) It’s summer, I have a pretty new home, work is going well, I bought some new jeans that I really like, I’m enjoying the book I’m reading, and it’s almost my birthday. No complaints from my corner.
But you know what’s actually good for people who want to write interesting things? Angst. Drama. Love triangles. Substance abuse issues. Or at the very least a wacky roommate or a psychotic cat. And I am 0 for 6 here folks.
So. Um. Here’s a picture of someone else’ psychotic cat: