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Early Afternoon…Left Unsupervised

She seems so much taller, and I so much weaker…when she’s ten feet tall…like Alice.

Shit…I AM down another rabbit hole. She’s not real. She’s in my head. Another left turn to procrastinate, not getting to the story I am supposed to be writing, and this shit pops into my head… recalculating…

Lost & Found…eventually

I’m behaving. Writing and, oh look, a squirrel. My mind reached saturation. I had so many tabs open across the top of my Chrome browser that you’d have to count, but what was the point? It was too damn many, plus the words at the top of each one were abbreviated. Pot luck at best.

So who’s fault is when an organic gets lost three links deep in one open app to cut something needed for another app that is the destination for pasting what he just copied five links deep under a different tab?

That was the deal: a routine task if you have an opposable thumb, a simple road map.

That was the strategy until the first shot was fired…I mean the very first shot, like returning to the original tab after he got the cut, turned around, and went back.

Back where?

That’s when his plan goes to shit, and good people have gotten lost. He was lost, stone sober, and lost. It felt like he was in fucking Tron…

*   *   *

That’s it for now…a new character named Grayson is onto something. I loved Tron, too. It should be a good fit. We’ll see where She tells me to send him.

Thank you, Muse.

I should be under house arrest any minute when a storyline comes together in my head. It’s her. She’s behind the wheel, and as Her scribe, that’s where I am so far.

Melissa, the Hulk’s sister, my Muse’s bodyguard, grabs my wrist and drags me; no, she’s throwing me over her shoulder like a bath towel and heading back to the office. She seems so much taller, and I so much weaker…when she’s ten feet tall…like Alice.

Shit…I AM down another rabbit hole. She’s not real. She’s in my head. Another left turn to procrastinate, not getting to the story I am supposed to be writing, and this shit pops into my head… recalculating…

 

“You have a story to write,” says the soft Australian female voice in my mind. It’s Her, my Muse. She is the boss of me and I’m afraid she likes it, never misses a trick. Wench. But, damn, that sweet voice…probably a good thing she’s not a real girl.

Welcome to my early afternoon. Carry on. There is nothing more to see here.

Peace!

G.

Writer of Things

 

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