I've no shortage of material.
Its the simple act of sitting down and making my over large fingers find the absurdly small letters that make up words that I have a hard time with.
Perhaps they should make a FF Keyboard. FF being Fat Fingers.
I'm not saying that would make things easier, or even quicker, its the motivation.
How do you get motivated?
I just sort of wait until the words have percolated in my head and heart long enough to bubble over and then I type. Fat Fingers and all until I spew out something that seems to calm the storms of words that spin in my head. Constantly.
I've been told (and I agree) that I am more than a little bit crazy.
Crazy being the step away from the normals that make them nervous, or laugh, or cry.
Moving right along.
What shall I tell you? Because at heart, I am a storyteller. Whatever the medium. Words, film, song, life. I am a storyteller.
I tell stories.
I have found, makes the best stories. I may take a few liberties, a few similes and multiple metaphors, but the truth is always the best.
I don't lie.
I have always hope that the people who read my words will understand that, but according to my stat thingy the vast majority of my readers are from Russia and Germany so they probably think I am quite the liar.
Or an idiot.
It matters not.
I have got stories to tell, and i will.
If I do not, like an volcano. they sit. Bubbling inside the mountain of stone I claim for a noggin, and they pulse. Pushing at the surface until finally.
Mt Saint Tommy.
Ideas and words strewn every which way hither and yon, some landing on fertile ground but most polluting the green earth below.
I may have mentioned before that I talk to Fat Jack.
But for those of you coming late to the party, I talk to my cat. His name is Fat Jack and he sounds EXACTLY like James E Jones.
We had a conversation a while back. About life.
He has more scars and missing teeth then I, not many, but enough to put him ahead in the bad-ass competition.
I just have a better Dentist.
See, he had gotten in a fight with some thing bigger then himself. I wont say he lost, because when you fight at that level, if you're still alive its a win.
So, we were sitting there, Me on the porch steps, the Jack on my lap.
I was holding him down with one hand and pulling his splintered tooth out of its infected socket with pliers.
He was (understandably) upset at me.
We were arguing.
It went something like this
Me "You dumb ass! Quit fighting the damn Raccoons!"
Jack "mmmmmpgh yearowl fewuuuuck!"
Me "shit. Its out. Chill out you big wimp"
J "Damn. That one hurt (spits)"
Me "I'm telling ya, you're getting to old to keep this shit up"
J "Ha! That's the pot calling the kettle black"
Me "Whatever fuzzball"
J "Really? Cut your hair, quit fighting, get a real job, stop dreaming and.."
Then he farted on me.
Mouse-Man Prophecies A Horror Story
1 day ago