Writing

Falling

And she who danced upon the darkness, breaks and thrashes on the floor. Throwing fits of rage and fury, torn and sundered to the core. Blistered through and through with wonder, blasted from the roles of fate. Ripped and wretched for a moment, crushed with woe upon the gate. No paraiah is more vanquished, than who buck the will of time. Seeking but to make a difference, though ‘tis an eternal crime.

A Serious Inquiry

Dear Freddy Krueger, I have long enjoyed your work. Eviscerating children is also one of my favorite hobbies! I was wondering about the specifications you used for the glove blades, and the honing/stropping methods you used. All of the limb-gouging tools I create never quite seem sharp enough… I know you have a busy schedule of invading dreams and terrifying occupants of Elm Street with a dizzying barrage of convoluted and psychologically unraveling horrors, but I’d greatly appreciate your input.

Never Enough Time

What are hobbies, exactly? They’re things that take time. Sometimes, too much time. Copious, extravagant amounts fully enabled by circumstance to derail anything improperly prioritized. (For me, that’s basically everything.) I have a desk job, folks. It’s not the worst thing for a writer, but I’ve also decided to learn to play the piano after something like two decades of indecision on the matter. And of course, I must maintain a relatively strenuous aerobics regimen to keep my malformed heart in working order.