Firstly I am going to squee of the fact that I found red nitrile gloves for $10 a box, which is an insanely good price that I might just get 2 boxes cause well it is a rare find indeed. Still not sure what else to get yet, but I guess I will figure that part out when I get that far. Ok that is all, just thought I would share a bit about my otherwise dull day.
Well some of you already know that I wouldn't mind doing my own channel on writing, and being a bit more transparent and less about trying to keep up with the other channels, who all seem to say the same things at roughly the same time from what they have found in basic google searches. Thinking of kinda sorta rolling my other blog title (the one in my sig connected to google) into a character, instead of simply using my real name like everyone else does. Thinking for the sake of privacy and safety being the main reasons to not give personal info like that out to the world wide webz in such a fashion. Also thinking about discussing topics that simply don't get addressed, cause they are not the 'hot' ones, but are far more realistic than spouting out a random list of misc. opinions in 5s or 10s. And if I happen to have an article that I want to discuss, I will cite it so that there is a source to be utilized, and not just someone looking like an arrogant ass spouting off like they know everything under the sun. Still working out the finer points of where to start, but getting there.
I don't know why or who thought it would be funny to use my email address to create a FL account and troll around. Fortunately they didn't have the skill to delete the email you get when you join the site. Luckily I solved the problem, and have deleted the account. But why make up an account and troll me? I deleted my account, a while back. So why would someone cook up another one for a joke? Needless to say I was not amused, Seems they got bored with their BS cause they only posted two nonsensical sentences about I have no idea. IDK why or understand why, but hopefully it won't happen again. Though I did find it weird that they used the same picture I use on my Facebook, but that might just be a wide coincidence. Either way it was creepy and weird. I just don't get why people do what they do for amusement. Just hope that it doesn't happen again, cause I don't find it funny.
So after getting upset, my brain decided to cook up something so insane that it just might be as funny as it is kinda strange. In a way it feels like a quick crude and crass story that an angsty teen or young adult who happens to listen to a fair bit of Cannibal Corpse might use that as a point of reference in telling a strange story about a diner, and more specifically about an elderly waitress. Oddly enough it is just a quick riff based upon those two ideas, and this is the insanity of a fast paced short, that I hope in the very least isn't taken all that seriously, as well as not taken as my personal thoughts on the subject matter. It is just suppose to be a fun little story to counteract being angry, and has nothing to do with anything beyond being entertaining. Diner Pie... (893 wrds) You know that old diner. The one that hasn’t escaped the decade it was built in, and hasn’t done much beyond converting the old gas lighting to electric, because of OSHA standards. You always feel at home there, even the first time you ever stepped foot in there. It just has that odd enticing feel that you are just comfortable with, and you’ll never be able to explain it to any of your friends or loved ones. Along with that one old waitress, you know the one. She smells like cigarettes and perfume that you are certain cost a small fortune, that she happened to stockpile back in the 40’s when it was the ‘hopping’ thing. “Good morning hon,” or some derivative she says in that harsh raspy voice of hers. The one that comes from smoking a pack of smokes before 10am, which can be likened to the same kind you would expect from someone who was gargling glass shards while deep-throating a steel cock. You shudder at the horrible image in your mind, while trying to hide it under the guise of being polite. After your first few visits and you become a ‘regular’, and every time you walk in that door she smiles at you with a sparkle in her wrinkled eye. It seems odd that she would take a shine to you specifically, but whatever. Suppose the rest of the regulars are just too regular, or there is just something about you that she takes fancy too. Regardless she always go out her way to freshen your coffee, or offer to get you a little something extra. After you have been going there every Tuesday for the past three years. When you realize that you have aged, and she is stuck at somewhere between 68 and Methusala. And after a while you feel you know her pretty well, having politely listened to her life’s history. While your not quite up on your history, you still don’t dare challenge her stories grandeur, and instead ask how the pie is today. At five years she has become the sweetly devilish grandmother you never asked for. The way you both always seem to laugh together every time she fills up the coffee for the yuppy that always sits at the counter every day for 10 hrs because they happen to have ‘free wifi’. Suppose the yuppy wouldn’t be laughing if he knew she made a ‘special’ pot of coffee every morning just for him, since he always complains about how awful it is, but always orders it anyway. As the months wear on she gets more and more flirty with you, and you can hear the cooks in the back crack wise about how you two are an ‘item’, and you flush with a bit of embarrassment. Though you know on more than one occasion have noticed the faded silk stockings bunched up about her skeletal ankles that fade into a pair of white orthopedic shoes, that look new if they were from the 50’s. Since you have found your routine that hasn’t changed in 6 years, and you are growing quite fond of the old waitress that you take compliment to the once previous ribbing from the cooks. That and you have taken a liking receiving home made cookies at Christmas in a Rockwellien tin, that was probably collecting dust in her attic for the better half of a century. As well as that extra slice of pie on your birthday. All the while you have wondered just how pretty she must have been back in the day, when there was still meat on her corpse, and her body was firmer. At this point you can’t help but wonder about such things as how youthful her now windsock gravity trodden tits were, as her scents of perfume and tobacco waft heavily as she leans in low and close to fill your coffee cup, while snow flutters on a light breeze. By this point you are so sucked into things, you have managed to think all sorts of things that you would and should be ashamed of, every time you walk in that diner. Yet you hide and repress all of it behind a friendly smile and pleasant greeting. Until that day finally comes when you are bound up naked and blindfolded to a chair made of old oak, and pretty sure you have a few splinters in your ass. And once you feel the gentle bony fingers remove the blind fold, you’re greeted to a sight that leaves you literally at a loss for words. Never mind the military uniform that somehow survived WWII, and would be amazing on a woman a fraction her age. She looks down at you with her stick thin leg up on the chair between yours, and you see the garter holding up the stockings, crimped tightly around a pair of long white silken panties that all women her age would wear. “Don’t you want to know how the pie is hon,” she rasps with a smile taking a long draw on a fresh cigarette.
When I say this, it is more in how the characters use them through out the course of the story. After all a decently fleshed out character will have a range to give a semblance to being 'realistic', as opposed to being robotic. Even so far the way they use their emotions to shape the persona of the characters. I notice how my characters work based on there emotional states, at given points in the horrific setting that I have thrust them into. Like Cor using her connection to Marckus, as an excuse to willingly do everything that causes her inner turmoil and self loathing. Effectively weaponizing Love, and using it as a justification for doing horrible acts that under standard protocols would carry massive consequences. Even go so far as to outright explain this to Sarge at one point not too long after they meet. However, there is nothing wrong with having a complicated and conflicted character like Cor going a bit off the rails, since she is still working to understand how to manage her feelings, since she hasn't had them before. Funnily enough she won't ever call it love, even though everyone around her does. Perhaps by the end she may use it. In a way having Marckus offer up himself, and his consequent imprisonment and torture, is kinda admission to the deep guilt he has carried. So in an odd back-handed fashion is seeking punishment for the things he had done in his past, and finding a way to allow the deep regret to finally come out in the open for all the terrible things he had done. I think at about the time he starts hallucinating in his pitch black cell in the sweltering heat, does he start to understand that he can't blame himself entirely for the choices he had made, sometimes there is no good choice, you just have to hope you're not completely wrong. And well what can I say about Graxis, he is oddly enough the 'straight man', which is kinda odd. Even keel he is, with a few deviations here and there, but not overly off the rails. Of course he has been tempted to toe the line with his own morality, but at the same time has an impact on the other two MCs. He garners no ill will towards his role that he plays, and well in a way is just living through life (such as it is), and be able to have a life once all is said and done without too much mental and bodily scarring. Perhaps I am just mad for seeing the depth to a story, that is probably not much more than a brutal messy affair of blood, guts, and chaos all wrapped up in a bow with good intention of the character's mind? IDK. What about you, how do your characters use their emotions to shape who they are in their universe?
View attachment 23004 Kinda plays off a joke letter I wrote. And like I said already, I don't see how I could keep out of trouble with such things.
"What do you know? It disintegrated." View attachment 22990 Trying to find my groove, and get back on track to finish my book so I can get working on other things. So bloody close (97.25K) and yet so far. Well I hope your WIP is moving along, and you can move on to other projects. Thanks, and have a wonderful day. View attachment 22991
After writing a bit where Cor gets shot, and the bullet stops just beneath the flesh, it would seem her carbon nano tube woven endo-skeleton would be able to top small arms fire. Not sure how well it would fair from large caliber ballistics like some sniper rifles in story, and I doubt that they would stop railgun and coilgun bolts. But 10mm assault rifle rounds and 15mm pistol rounds will definitely stop, so long as they don't hit anywhere that is not boney. Doesn't mean that getting shot doesn't hurt any less, just less likely to puncture most vital organs. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/7038686.stm
So I wrote this short Friday night, and the people who have read it just love it. What are your thoughts? Dance of the Cyber-Goth (1294 words) She was stunning as she catches my eye. Tight black leather adorned her body, ending below her bright orange laced up Industrial bodice was a short leather pleated mini skirt. On her thighs down to just below her knees, are neon orange fishnets. And she towered above her normal height on 4in. thick soled military style boots strapped up her calves. Her large bright eyes stood pronounced from her pale flesh, with an artistic onyx design around each of her breath taking ocular organs. They captivated me, as they rest above her respirator with spikes running down the middle, and bright blood bio-hazard symbols on each filter. The goggles on her head, with three large spikes on the outside of each side of the frames, and white crosses on each lens, framed her eyes exquisitely with the respirator. Every move of her head, her raven and neon orange tubular hair swayed and bounced as it seemed to dance in a non-existent breeze. She could move with the music as well. Extremely sensual and graceful to the Cyber-Industrial beat pounding over the speakers. The full body motion and range of her dancing, and the curious style of the way one dances to the type of music, only seduces me more to the Cyber-Siren. Ever when she came to a point in her intricate dynamic rhythm and did a little stomp, it was adorable. Her body one with every deep thump of the pounding bass, and she flowed with the synth accompanying it. Unable to take my gaze off her wonderful undulation, my heart beating with each heavy shock-wave from the bass. After dancing through a few more songs, she took a seat opposite me at the circular bar. I tried to tear my eyes from her, but she had me hypnotized. Our eyes met for a long second in the loudness, and I quickly averted my gaze to peer down at the bar. Embarrassed that I had been staring at her intently. I waited a little bit, and tried not to study her while she sipped her drink. But I could not help it, and dared to peek back at her across the bar. She was gorgeous still, with her respirator hanging loosely about her slender neck. Her ghostly complexion contrasted with dark plum stained lips, and a pair of snake-bites glinted in the light just above her upper lip. She caught my visual musings at her, and offered a little smile toward me. I returned the gesture feeling sheepish, and took a large swig on my beer. We sat at odds for some minutes, having a silent discussion in the distance between us. I felt a flutter in my belly, when she motioned me to join her with her porcelain slender hand. I thought my heart missed a beat and a half, and pointed at myself just to clarify that she had beckoned me and not someone else. She repeated the gesture, and mouthed ‘Yes you, come here.’ She flashed a broader smile on her dark plum lips. Nervously I gathered my half empty bottle, and trod around the bar to her. Weaving my way around the other patrons as I traveled. Every stride my mind reeled with a million questions, and other thoughts. A trickle of anxiety ran through me as I completed the last few steps to where she sat. It was surreal to me, as she offered me to sit next to her. Slowly I slid onto the stool next to her on her left side. I could feel her eyes studying me from head to toe a few moments, and I met hers with mine. She did not speak, nor did I. We simply embraced each other with our gaze. The way she peered deeply into me, was more intoxicating than the brew. So many wonderful and mysterious things in those lovely mild sky blues of hers. Just as I finished the last of my beer about to order another, she put her tender hand on my wrist. She motioned with her head toward the exit. I nodded and left money under the empty bottle with tip for our drinks. I barely had my wallet back in my pocket, than she took my hand firmly and lead the way out. Once outside in the cool late night air, the loud music muffled and my ears were adjusting to the quieter atmosphere on the sidewalk. She stopped a moment near a low wall just a dozen steps, and leaned up against it looking directly at me with upturned lips. “So what’s the plan,” I asked unsure of what she wanted of me. She did not speak, but pointed at me and then motioned me toward her. “Ok,” I said and she grinned like a huntress who had caught her prey. I moved toward the leather clad Cyber-Siren, and she took my hands and put them around her waist. She was warm and inviting in my embrace. Sliding a slender digit over her lips she pointed toward herself. “Yes, ma’am,” I complied with her invitation, realizing that she is deaf. Her eyes lit up, and our lips connected gingerly until she took hold of my face. Her tongue was tactile and sweet with a hint of fruitiness from whatever had been drinking at the bar. For a good thirty seconds our lips remained locked and our tongues caressed and explored one another. She let go of my cheeks with soft sigh, and a satisfied look on her features. She then used her hands to ask if I liked watching her as she danced. “Yes, I enjoyed the way you move on the dance floor.” She grinned and took me by the hand once more, leading me off in silence. I had little else on my mind, except for her and what she wished of me. *** My buzz wore of from the beer, and I realized I was in her house. She lead me to a chair, and had me sit. Guiding my hands around the back of the furniture, I felt her cuff my wrists together. Coming back in front of me she bent over, placed a finger over my lips to silence me. Her intoxicating sky blues beamed brightly, and she spoke with her hands. Telling me that she was going to dance for me, and that all I could do was watch. Nodding in agreement, I relaxed into the cushion of the chair. She beamed at me a moment, before ambulating across the living room. Rolling her hips as she traveled. She busied herself a moment or two at the cabinet across the room. I heard the heavy steady beat and synth from speakers, the bass reverberated through the wood floor under my feet. She Turned on her heels and began to unlace her bodice slowly as she came back over to me. She stripped way the bodice and skirt, tossing the leather garments on the couch, as she revealed a lacy bright neon green thong beneath her neon orange fishnets. And she removed her bra that held her medium sized bosom, and cast it to be with the other garments. Her nipples stood at attention from her breasts, as she covered her mouth and nose with the respirator. We locked eyes and she danced throughout the night for me. Never once did we break contact with one another, as she displayed her joy and love for moving to the music. She was wonderful to watch and to peer into her hypnotic gaze, as she allowed me to see her delightful soul jubilantly bared to me. It was beyond words, but words could only do harm.
Hard to stay positive when you feel and think badly of yourself. Hard not to think that no one really understands or cares. Hard to not think of everyone as seeing you as something to be rejected. Hard not to feel alone and abandoned. Hard not to feel useless and pointless. Hard not to grow cold and numb. Hard not to feel like a failure. Hard not to think that life is just plain cruel. Hard not to push others away. Hard to not want to just give in or give up. Hard to trust when you think you will just get hurt. Hard not to make jokes and act a clown, to hide your in pain. Hard to not feel broken. Hard to just stop having all these damn negative thoughts and feelings! Depression you really suck, and I want to punch you in face really hard!
As some of you are well aware that I am a Fetishist. More precisely a Medical Fetishist, that practices Med/Surg/Dent. Wow this must be how coming out of the closet feels like, but for something stranger than simply sexual pref. Not that I have done much to hide my extracurricular activities outside of writing. It is something I have had to keep on the DL for a long time, like many people do about their preffs. I understand it could bother some, considering I have a bit of a masochistic nature and a fancy metal candy dish filled with needles. Just think it would be best to get this off my chest, and be who I am and not be all 'Phony Smiles and Fake Hellos' (BLS ref) All the puns, jokes, and metaphors are just apart of who I am, and I can't switch it off. TBH I have only in the past year figured out the why, and it is due to the fact that it does hurt to heal. Not that I feel the need to delve into dark subject matter, that has made me into the man I am today. We will just say for augments sake that I am kinda hardwired this way, and it can't be undone. Not that I find it all to be problematic in the slightest, but I have had at least one person think that I am pushing some ideology. when I am clearly not. Not out to push either BDSM or Kink on anyone (though I have been accused). I am simply me. And yes I am weird, strange, and think differently than most. But I am nothing more than a novelty created from a place you don't understand. That does not make me any less genuine a person. I am not perfect, and I don't judge anyone,but by the character of their person, not just to be an ass. So what if I am serious in what I am into, isn't every person? We all define ourselves by our interests and nature (whether it be from a place of nicety, or one of pain and misery). So can you accept me, the way I accept you? (Also cause I wanna have a bit of fun) View attachment 12905
As some of you are well aware that I am a Fetishist. More precisely a Medical Fetishist, that practices Med/Surg/Dent. Wow this must be how coming out of the closet feels like, but for something stranger than simply sexual pref. Not that I have done much to hide my extracurricular activities outside of writing. It is something I have had to keep on the DL for a long time, like many people do about their preffs. I understand it could bother some, considering I have a bit of a masochistic nature and a fancy metal candy dish filled with needles. Just think it would be best to get this off my chest, and be who I am and not be all 'Phony Smiles and Fake Hellos' (BLS ref) All the puns, jokes, and metaphors are just apart of who I am, and I can't switch it off. TBH I have only in the past year figured out the why, and it is due to the fact that it does hurt to heal. Not that I feel the need to delve into dark subject matter, that has made me into the man I am today. We will just say for augments sake that I am kinda hardwired this way, and it can't be undone. Not that I find it all to be problematic in the slightest, but I have had at least one person think that I am pushing some ideology. when I am clearly not. Not out to push either BDSM or Kink on anyone (though I have been accused). I am simply me. And yes I am weird, strange, and think differently than most. But I am nothing more than a novelty created from a place you don't understand. That does not make me any less genuine a person. I am not perfect, and I don't judge anyone,but by the character of their person, not just to be an ass. So what if I am serious in what I am into, isn't every person? We all define ourselves by our interests and nature (whether it be from a place of nicety, or one of pain and misery). So can you accept me, the way I accept you? (Also cause I wanna have a bit of fun) View attachment 22976
Since getting feedback from the writing group last week on my current main WIP, it was a massacre (no pun intended). And some of what I got back was that one of my MCs came off as pervy for having a mercenary sit on a live grenade at gunpoint. Even though it is not hinted at being more than just a sick joke to keep them there until back up arrives. Altogether I have the entire first 40pgs that need to be axed and re-writ. Which feels massive, even though that would leave me 100pgs that are workable. But should I really bother with finishing a story that nobody will ever read? Not like it's prequel really gained any steam or audience. Kinda been avoiding it like the plague and working on shorts that don't have anything to do with my WIP, because it just seems like a massive undertaking to endure next to no payoff. I mean it is almost as if I have thrown a year and few months do the drain trying to get this damn story to it's ending, but it just doesn't really inspire me to want to even see if I can get it there. IDK what to do about this conundrum...Help please? Thank you.
This has to be one of the hardest parts I have had to write. Just don't know if it works, given the fact that I had to do a bit of research, and kinda mashed together a few elements to create the entire portrayal. 1421 words that hopefully make sense. Marckus: Huddling in the corner in the pitch blackness, sore and weeping. Unable to muster the energy to raise my head, as the dull ache in my skull resonates with each little sob in the gaping hole where my left eye no longer is. Still I do not know how long I have been here. Even more frightening still, I am unsure of who I even am. Which is worse? The bright lights, restraint, and never ceasing Inquisition that has ravaged my body, along with never ending questions. Questions I refuse to answer. Or the darkness and deafening silence, and my imagination running wild of nightmares. Shivering soaking in sweat, straining my mind in the vain hope of remembering anything. At points something taunts me, but always remains just outside my focus. Mostly they are mere glimpses of the dead and dying. Reaching, begging, pleading through a haze. Towards me in a dense fog, to help them. To save them. Every so often I can feel my hand try and reach out to pull a fuzzy image of a suffering form, and they pass through my gnarled and mutilated fingers. Each failure to reach out and touch these apparitions grates on my mind, like that of a rasp on a bone. Contorting my face into a horrid snarl of frustration and torrential agony. Causing each new failure to emblazon me with a sorrow and regret, that crashes upon me in waves. With each new wave only allows me to guess as to who I use to be, what I was meant to be. All of it ultimately weighing on me in an ever increasing vice, slowly crushing my weakening body. Squeezing the life from me, as well as what little remains of my spirit. “Look at you,” a voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, as if there is someone standing near me and yet far off in the distance. With the little will I have left, forcing my eye to scan the darkness around me. I do not change my posture, noting from somewhere deep down that I am still alone. There was not an instance that I could ever recall of there every being a time when there has been a way to be spoken to from inside the cell itself. I am sure of this having explored the confining metal box down to the last millimeter. As far as I understand walls do not have the ability to speak. “You’re pathetic,” the voice chimes in a scolding manner,” To think what started as a man, reduced to nothing but a quivering husk of fear and disappointment.” Retreating a bit further into the recess of the wall, scraping my shoulder against the rough metal bunk just to my left. “Go away,” I feebly murmur trying to banish the offending voice. It let out a sickly sinister laugh, sending a chill through the marrow of my bones. Echoing off the metal walls of the cell for far longer than could ever be possible in the metal box. Taking a long inhalation, emitting a hum of amusement and defiance. “No! I can’t leave,” it began again, starting to take shape, becoming sharper, clearer, and gaining a definition,” Not until you remember. Become what you are. Only then can I go.” I consider what it speaks, wondering how this voice can possibly know, that which I cannot seem to recall. Admittedly even as it ridicules me, there is something in the way it speaks that may bring some form of relief. In a way the hope in me is not much more than the dying glow of a spent match. Smoking, as it fades from my will to live. Knowing in my growing lament for death, denied by those who have done this to me. “This is not what imprisons you. You have done that all by yourself,” the voice continues,” Not in what those who ream and molest your flesh. Not even in these walls of metal. The only thing holding you captive is you.” Propping my chin up on my weary hand, searching the darkness with a little more vivacity with my burning dry eye. Almost creaking against the bone, as there is no more tears to lubricate it as it strains to see anything in the blackness shrouding everything about me. “Stop looking for answers with your eyes,” It barks and I involuntarily jump at its tone,” There are no answers in this box. You are as stupid as you are spineless.” “You have some nerve,” I hiss through my teeth, and exposed bone of my fingertips bites into my palm. The sweat burns into the freshly split flesh, only feeding the disdain for the contemptuous voice mocking my pain. “Correction I did, but not anymore,” the voice grows more even, almost forlorn in a way,” But you of all should know that,” “Quit dancing about,” a little more inflection and life in my throat,” You’re really starting to piss me off more than the fuckers who won’t stop trying to force me to tell them about those I don’t even know.” “That is the spirit,” half mocking, half encouraging,” Now we’re getting some where. So get pissed off at me, I could care less. Though it is useless. Now shut the fuck up, and listen to me! Time and my patience are not something you can simply piss away, not now.” “Fine,” I bitterly concede to it,” How can I remember, and be what you think I am?” “Here is your key to freedom,” the tone growing soft, mournful,” Beja nis...Revein nisola gworn illumai.” The words echoed in the hollowness, and silence ruling the sweltering confines in the emptiness of the cell. A few moments pass, before I realize I am standing. Something buried so far down, transcending a lifetime long since passed. No sooner on my feet, gravity brings me to my knees. For a second I am filled with confusion, and immediately stricken with a mass of emotions. New pain more excruciating than I have ever felt before, making the fresh wounds nothing but a pinprick. Every bullet, slice, hit, and fragment of shrapnel from hundreds of battles, become one with the heat of a flame. Every centimeter of my skin shrieking, as all the old wounds come to life again in my flesh. Every single face that had once been locked in a haze, now flashing before me in complete clarity. Each look of desperation, each hand reaching toward me. From the most recent injured, mutilated forms bleeding from all wounds a war can inflict. Thousands upon thousands of these horrific images only compound the pain in my flesh. Soldiers. Civilians. Humans. Aliens. Every last one I fought to keep alive. Dragging or carrying them to safety. Some survived, and others died. The final nightmarish image lingers in front of me. Her small body laying on the gurney in the medic tent. Lower jaw exposed except for a bit of flesh on her right cheek. Large deep walnut eye, a gelatinous soup pouring from its socket. Limbs and torso torn up from razor wire, and a light artillery round. Upper pelvis and organs pulsing in the open air, as her purple blood flowed freely from every part of her. I remember carrying her small body wrapped in my fatigue blouse, she weighed nothing in my arms as I fought to get her from the front line. Two frantic and mortifying kilometers, half a dozen rounds in me, and a terrifying several minutes tangled in a razor wire line. Reliving every moment, as if it were only yesterday. The raw nerve reaction and ferocity re-awoke in me. The immense resentment I had when the medics could not save her, and her pale gray skin went white. I broke the senior medics jaw with all my force behind my fist. Nearly died from cross contamination of her silicon blood in my wounds. My arms up in the air supporting an invisible mass, turning my face up into the void. Passion, desire, hatred, all begin to rekindle my fading light. In the rage, one word roaring from my swollen raw vocal chords. “Lilanisya!”
I have noticed along my journey into book two (and no there is no book three to follow), I find that there are times I simply can't find the will to write. Most of the time it is due to being lonely, and deeply depressed. More recently, it has been due to worry. My old man decided to go MIA, and we can't seem to find him. And it is hard to want or to will anything out of me to write. It sucks. But as life is, it is rarely fair nor does it make a lick of sense. Though tonight I have managed to progress a bit on my story despite all the chaos going on at the present, with my old man up and running about the boonies not wanting to be found. But it is hard to make the headway that I have. Even missed this weeks meeting with the local group, mainly due to car issues (stupid car). That sums things up. View attachment 22970