"Hey, what's the point of this…"-The Flys

Good morning early birds! Here's your worms! I know, I never post this early. Kinda freaky huh? What's up with that? It's long walk day.

I can hear your sighing from here. My walk posts aren't that bad. They're quick, but c'mon, I need the exercise. But if you guys are good and don't trash up the space while I'm gone, I'll send you cool picks from my walk, while I'm on it.

Hey wait! Where are you going?

Thanks a lot.

Well then, back to our previously scheduled blog, already in progress...

"...I'm going to go try these on."

"Ok, I'll be over here fondling the panties."

She sighs.

That's when I knew things were taking a slide. If I'd said that 3 years ago, she'd have said something like "Make sure that nobody's in them first." That was her then: always full of safety tips. She accepted my insanity, and embraced it.

Like tonight, we were discussing our dining options for tomorrow.

"How 'bout hot dogs? We have plenty." I offer.

"Yeah, so we'll have hot dogs and chili, beanie weenies, hot dogs and kraut…"

"Give it a chance, you just have to be creative. What about hot dogs and pancakes?"

"Ew!"

"C'mon! We'll wrap them up, Pigs in thermal blankets!"

"What?"

"Pigs in a quilt?"

"You're an idiot."

"Well yeah, but I'm a creative one."

See? No joy.

I miss our banter. Don't look at me that way! I don't mean like, "Waaa! I'll never replace her Waaa!" I mean more like, "I need somebody to keep me in check." Not only for my sanity, but also for my creativity. I work better if I can rebound off of someone. I used to talk things out with her, play dialogue off of her, that type of stuff. She'd read my stories and go, "Is that the only reason I'm here? To try your material out before you write it?"

"No you help create it."

She'd look up and sigh.

I need that. I need the dialogue. Where else can I get it? I have my writers' group, but you can't take conversations from writers; they call it plagiarism.

And see, that's what works for me. I'm already struggling with a handicap. It's like yesterday's post. I had to do some research; I couldn't spell "Palahniuk" I really can't spell at all. Anybody who knows me, is bobbing their head right now, and it's not to the music. It's true. I can't spell, and as a writer, it's quite the handicap. I'm like a castrated porn star. I struggle daily with my shortcomings, and concentrate on my cuddle time with spell check.

Without rapport, I might as well write grocery lists.

Ok, I am over exaggerating, but it is one of those things that worries me. Who's gonna keep me honest in my writing?

Speaking of which, I've got to go get some sleep, so I can get up and do my walk. I am going to try and send a photo every mile, so watch the blog. Since you can't buy a cell phone without a camera anymore, I might as well use it. This is probably gonna suck for everybody but me. Well maybe even me, but what the hell? The ones where I pass out due to heat exhaustion ought to be pretty amusing.

In the meantime, here's some dark refrigerator poetry from a few months ago. If you rearrange the words, you get a secret message from the author.

Try it!