Why must life hurt so much?
This morning, I bit my tongue, stubbed my toe, and pinched my leg between the toilet seat and the bowl.
At lunch, I spilt soup on my wrist.
I caught my hair in my necklace. My shower was too hot. I missed my mouth with my toothbrush, and there’s mint up my beak. There’s a lump in my throat and a gash on my thumb. The roof of my mouth is all scalded. My elbow feels weird, like there’s sand in the joint, sand in my eyes, sand in my limbs. I’m heavy all over. So tired.
What is it about lack of sleep that makes every twinge so distressing?
I had more to say today. Really, I did. It’ll just have to wait, though. I’m slain. I’ll leave you with these lines, snipped from today’s work (sci-fi, this time, not romance)—
He kicked sand at the birds. They pulled in their necks and stayed where they were. The big one made a warbling sound. It looked just like Jeb, ugly and pink with a great bristling beak.
“Go away,” he told it.
Up above, the thumping started. The buzzards edged closer, ready to eat.
RG Double Ghost 