Writery stuff. Readery stuff. Aftermath.

So, right now I am working on a couple manuscripts, I’ll probably post a chunk of them tomorrow.   I read a post about depression and how it makes it hard to do things.  I understand, with one exception, I always write from a dark place, the more I want to just…  Well anyways, I write best when I can’t see the keyboard through tears.

I don’t know if anyone else has read Andrea Speed’s Infected series.  Book three will make you want to smack anyone who smiles for like a week.

She is a beautiful writer and so very good with words.  Obviously I am not.  The blog posts are probably first drafty and I am actually okay with that.  I’m just talking to myself mostly anyways.

I had twenty seven cigarettes today.  Had thirty yesterday so I am doing pretty good.  My sister is one of my best friends and she is concerned about me.

“Hey, Have I told you lately that I love you? I think you are one of the bravest giving passionate creative person that I have ever had in my life.”-Sister2

The only other male at my work place, hit on me today.  I’m not entirely sure if he was serious.  I’m kind of hoping he wasn’t.  He’s to good for me.  Like A&F could use him as a model.  I’m twig thin and lacking in every muscle group.

I’ve been wondering a lot lately what makes someone mature?  Is it age? Attitude?  What?

Also what makes someone brave? What is the difference between stupid and brave and why?

Also, also, (terrible grammar) How long is it okay to grieve?  Is there a time limit and are there healthy ways to deal with it?

Even MORE also, is punching the mother of a dead friend appropriate grieving?  And before there are confused angry “hell no’s!”  Let me just explain that I am not a violent person, to others, except verbally occasionally.  She asked me why I had to make him gay.

At his funereal.

I’m not religious, but I felt like saying what I wanted to in front of a priest was kind of wrong.

I really just wanted to scream “Gay is something you are or your not!  Bitch is a choice you have so clearly made.  He is dead and you still can’t love him.  He was beautiful.  A light in this shit hole of a world and you couldn’t see it through the eighty layers of make up you slather on your face.  Your his mother.  You were his mother, where’s the unconditional love your supposed to have for the child that grew inside of your gapping whore vag?”

I wish she was a character in a book, preferably the main character so she might make sense to me.

One song stuck in my emo head today, Bad bad day- P!nk.

I’ve had a bad bad day but who gives a shit.  Could be sad all day but I don’t feel like it!

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