Write Something. Damn it! Who cares if it’s crap, literally?

 

Mr-AcerbicA conversation with myself because no one else will listen.

Why don’t I feel like writing? – Arctic spring weather? Green goop in China? Wrist Apnea?

Lame, lame and lame. Just strike the damn keys until something appears –

Black-and-blue words, broken letters…

Cut the crap! You’re being lazy. No one gets anywhere by being lazy. You’ve got to park your butt on the chair and exercise your fingers. Just do it, if that is what you want to do. The hell with everything else.

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Food, You Are Dead to Me!

 

-oh-god-why-

Because I can’t taste you anymore.
At least, not in the way I used to.

Several months ago, I noticed that
trusted flavors lacked their usual zest.

Garlic, yogurt, onions…all tasted bland.

Granted, I’ve never been much of
a cook…Well, food tasted blander
than that.

At first, I thought I was imagining it.
But as time passed, I realized it was real.

Food had lost its zing. It was just plain, tasteless.

Sure, at times a hint of peripheral flavors slipped through the vague ingredients.

I was able to detect gobs of garlic, onions and even burnt toast. Sweet foods tasted sweet but not in a savory way.

All the flavors smushed together into one muted lump that confused my brain.

While I was eating a piece of cake, my brain sent a note.

Hey, you. That’s supposed to be chocolate you’re eating. But I taste nonspecific sweet, not dark chocolate sweet. What’s up with that?

I don’t know what to say. It looks like cake. But…the sights, textures and taste of foods just don’t jive.

I knew what I was eating but there was a communication problem between my tongue and brain. After being BFFs for so many years, suddenly they stopped talking.

My brain sent another note one night while I was eating pepperoni pizza.

Hey, that’s cheese. Isn’t it? And spicy pepperoni with garlic. But all I taste is a hint of spice. Not a specific spice. Again, totally generic and bland. What’s up with that?

Well, I’ve got this stuff in the sensory area of my brain. Lesions force the neurons to take the scenic route, on the back roads, to where they need to go. Instead of the short cut they’re used to.

Oh, yeah, 2001. Now I remember being zapped with electrical impulses during the Sensory Evoked Potential Test.

Hey, I was zapped. You just reacted.

Well, it sucked just the same. But what’s that got to do with the taste of food at a Chinese restaurant?

Sensory, my friend. Senses, lack of taste…

You’ve always been a bit tasteless but never with food.

Well, now we’ve come full circle, or rather full oval, the actual shape of my head.

Just do me a flavor. I mean favor. The next time you eat chocolate cake, smother it with hot fudge, mint chocolate chip ice cream and whip cream. Lots of sweet stuff. Maybe if you inundate your tongue with a potpourri of sweets, you’ll get dessert justice.

Thanks Brain. Now I know why you’re in charge. But you still have my ass to answer to.

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Blankety-blank page, the bleeping white brain suck

 

Thought I’d never see you again. But here you are, staring at me like a white light at the end of an airport ramp crammed with waitlisted souls.

God, you are not. If I were to compare you to an omnipotent being, it would be the devil. You torture me like he does and are as unforgiving as he is.

You burn my eyes with what I thought was desire but is eyestrain instead.

troll-devil

As I stare into oblivion, not a word on the page, only a nagging internal voice harassing me about stupid shit.

You idiot. The Word document language is set to French. No wonder the dictionary didn’t recognize the word ”blank” or “obnoxious.”

That could happen to anyone.

Doubtful!

Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me?

Yes, but this is much more fun. Don’t you have laundry to do?

I still have “B” drawer clothing.

Not those old ratty jeans that are so faded the holes have holes.

I’ve got a long blouse that hides them.

Another hair-brained “I love Lucy” solution. Anyway, I thought you were trying to write…if that’s what you call sitting at your desk with eyes glazed over like a ham. 

I was making progress until you interrupted.

No, you were brain-dead at your desk.

Well, it’s late. I’m fried

Brain-dead, like I said. Why waste your time trying to squeeze out a thought. You could be sleeping, two dogs deep in bed with the snorer.

I just elbow Jim when I can’t take it any more.

I was talking about you.

I’d be able to sleep if you didn’t blab incessantly about nonsensical shit. What’s a Goople anyway?

It’s the dying civilization of the Goop; distant relatives of swamp people who coexist with crocodiles with which they fight for food. But often the crocodiles win. And the Goople race continues to dwindle in numbers while the crocodiles thrive.

And you wonder why I can’t sleep.

You can’t write either. Remember, blank page, whiny babble.

Well, this time, your obnoxious cynicism and outlandish ideas have actually helped. See the words!

Damn you! I’m not finished yet. As soon as you’ve finished belching from your lousy cooking, I’m going inundate you with more crazy shit.

I’m participating in Silly Sunday, hosted by Sandy of Comedy Plus. Laugh and Link Up!

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The Hail Mary Hissy Fit

 

Hail  Mary.jpg

Hail Mary.jpg (Photo credit: ToreaJade)

 

Sometimes you’ve got to vent, then pray it saves your head.

Let it go!

Let it rip!

Let it ride on black while you’re blue.

If it only stopped at red.

 

Instead, my unhinged roulette spins off course into a storm,

Down a ravine I didn’t see.

No time for a Hail Mary scream.

I hit rocky road bottom without the ice cream.

 

Where do I go when I’m down this low?

Not farther south to bellwether hell.

Sitting for an eternity in the afterlife breakroom,

Filling out the same form until my fingers bleed.

 

I ‘m not a big fan of fire or brimstone,

Of charred dreams roasting on a spit.

Don’t want to linger in God’s basement

Where the ambiance trends toward grim.

 

So, I search for sky and find it,

Get a grip on the craggy mountainside.

I look up, never down at dusty footprints left behind,

While I pace myself to avoid another slide.

 

I dig in, holding onto hope on a rope, without the bar of soap.

The beat of my feet a slow steady motion.

Don’t want to peak before the peak.

Energy lost from all the bitching, at the top, I will sleep.

 

One eye open,

One eye closed,

Looking forward, looking home.

Another day,

Another load of laundry,

Hampered by the memory of dirty clothes.

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Paradise Lost

 

One forkful then another, she slipped the succulent oozing chocolate past parting lips, licking them clean, as luscious dark decadence painted her tongue. More, she wanted more chunks of rich cathartic bliss to scoop then swallow, lifting, then plunging into a yearning mouth; her only focus, she was oblivious to everything else, including the potential hazard of too much wine combined with devil’s food cake.

Delicious savory bits slid down her throat, satisfying a need inside, unmatched by the lack of fulfillment capabilities of her throat. The chocolate coalesced in her esophagus, blocking the one escape route for her lungs; gasping, she reached for the glass on the table, swiping it, it toppled on its side. The wine spilled, as she clutched her throat, collapsing face first onto the plate of chocolate cake.

 

I’m participating in Lillie McFerrin’s weekly Five Sentence Fiction exercise. This week’s prompt – Paradise.

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Empty Ester, An Accident in Progress

 

Empty Ester lost her head, once a prominent fixture on her shoulders, air lingers there instead. She blamed the loss on her stubborn boss who demanded too much of her vapid thoughts.

“Find me the ‘Nail’ file,” he had said to her. “It’s the one after “O” called ‘Oblivious.'”

She should have known not to ponder the contents of “Oblivious,” the mere thought of which, caused her head to explode.

English: Detonation of explosives.

English: Detonation of explosives. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Double linking:

I’m participating in Lillie McFerrin’s weekly Five Sentence Fiction challenge. This week’s prompt – Empty.

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I’ve also linked up to Silly Sunday, hosted by Rhonda of Laugh-Quotes.
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I Have a Linking Problem

 

My name is Lauren and I’m a 404-aholic.

I first realized I had a linking problem when Mike from We Work for Cheese told me about a defective link in the post, Canadians Blamed for Blast of Frigid Air or is that Frigidaire?

I accidentally added an “http” at the end of the address, which resulted in a “404 not found.”

Pfft!  Bloody, “oops…404 error.”

 

Post Purgatory

 

Don’t pity me or other 404-aholics like me, those who may be afraid to admit they have a problem, afraid that people will pity their stupidity.

Not me!

I will never make excuses for my dysfunction, which is clearly due to an HTML disability, the root of the problem traced to my family history and an anomaly in the linking gene.

So, I set Mike’s broken link in a cast and continued blogging and linking and falling asleep on my desk when writing late at night.

Sleep is optimum blogging time for me. I rarely get into trouble during a REM cycle, except for an occasional dust up with a character in a dream. Like Nancy in “Nightmare on Elm Street,” I never get bludgeoned to death or end up duct taped to an exploding chair.

Face it. Shit happens at night in our dreams and during the day in real life.

This is real life. Right? Pinch me!

A month later, online and awake again, another linking slip-up in a post, a review of Luke Armstrong’s book, How We Are Human.

While reviewing the post after publishing it – like buying a car before test driving it – I noticed I had omitted a word from a sentence and had included a moldy link to Luke’s website: lukespartacus.com. I discovered this after I clicked on the link and got a 404 page error.

Another day.  Another oops…404 error.

At that point, I entered a linking program with Dr. Drew, where I work on abstaining from one last hit of HTML.

Sadly, I fear I will never be able to completely give up linking, as it is inherent in what I do.

Last week, I went on a linking bender, failed an HTML webalyzer test and lost my browsing license. Going forward, I think I’ll be okay if I link responsibly and never, ever link while driving.

Do you have a linking problem?

I’m participating in Silly Sunday, hosted by Rhonda of Laugh-Quotes.

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iFeline Cat Robot with Dog Death Ray

iFeline Cat Robot with Dog Death Ray

iFeline Cat Robot with Dog Death Ray

The iFeline cat robot is so authentic looking you’ll swear it’s real!

After fourteen years (seven human years), our software experts at iFeline Laboratories have perfected the first responsive cat robot on the market, produced to replicate cat like indifference and stealth maneuverability.

Like an ordinary cat, the iFeline will sit on your lap when it’s in the mood and suddenly appear underfoot while you’re climbing stairs or running to answer the phone.

The rechargeable iFeline cat robot, with dog death ray, comes with portable charger, GPS system, durable plastic exterior, programmable purr and meow voice control, adjustable volume and vibration device and carrying case.

Its advanced spring-loaded hindquarter technology enables the iFeline to jump up to fifty feet and then land on all fours every time.

iFeline’s specially formulated natural fur coat is waterproof and can handle the most severe weather conditions. The iFeline’s durable handcrafted fur coat will not shed and is guaranteed to last through nine lives.

Every iFeline is fitted with retractable synthetic claws that never require clipping and is designed with turbo digging and scratching functionality. The iFeline can climb trees, as well as your furniture and drapes, can last up to 360 days outdoors, while hanging from a branch, and comes with a Wi-Fi activated parachute. iFeline tech experts are available 24/7 to handle any iFeline glitches or emergencies.

The iFeline is available in adult cat and kitten sizes and a variety of colors, including calico, primary colors, as well as shiny metallic pink, green and blue.

Batteries not included.


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