I don’t care what it is. I just know that I have to do it. No copying and pasting. No faking out. If you get to one hundred words, you just have to do that four more times. It’s nothing. It’s really, in all honesty, nothing.
I’m already halfway to one hundred. Even if this is precisely what I was talking with my cousin slash business coach. Why do this if it isn’t fun? If it isn’t about anything but pride. Well, I’ve still got my pride, I guess. That’s what they’ll put on my serpentstone headstone: she had her pride. Okay, well, here we go, back to the desert. And the dessert, if I can bear the weight of that extra s and slither my way into the kitchen to look for one of Paris’ apples or one of my chocolate flavo-fied strawberries. Already halfway to two hundred. It’s sort of like magic when you don’t engage your brain whatsoever. I have tasks to complete. Bears to fall on and kill with my thousand cuts from my thousand blades. Really, for the moment, I’m not hungry at all, I’m just afraid that I will get into another spree and turn around and have to swallow the fact that I couldn’t take care of my business. If I can, I want to. And I can do this when I fail and fry so many other things.
Tomorrow, this, of course, because I’m starting to be of the opinion that this will never, ever be over and moreover than that, I would never, ever want it to be. Eila is tops in my book. But, along with this, tomorrow we will venture out into the malls and into the merchant stalls and their hand them some of their pre-ordained profits so that our Christmas has some presence on the material plane and not just in our hearts and minds. See, now we’re half way to the finish line and haven’t said anything at all. There may be a spot of snow, but that’s alright. I’m allowing it on behalf of the lakes and reservoirs and trees and all of the flora that will be looking mighty rough come springtime if it’s not given its artesial due here and now in the dog days of winter.
How am I you ask? Or I ask and hear echoed back to me at a slightly different angle so I can pretend you’re there and asked. Oh, well, I feel tired and gross and exhilarated and good and focused and absent and really in the perfect spot to be in right before the holidays compress everything into a tight little pellet of go girl go. It is as it is supposed to be.
Now we’re just fifty words away from signing off. My mother will get a sweater and a coupon for this restorative yoga class so that if she decides it was better on the astral plane, we won’t have to get a refund. The rest, I have no idea.