My commute

They're doing construction on the highway I take to and from work.  That tacks another twenty minutes or so to my already hour drive.
This is basically what it's like every day:

Welcome to my morning commute.
1. If you're are going 45 mph and attempting to merge onto a highway that is going 65 mph, perhaps you don't realize you're totally screwing the 11 people behind you. I hate you. I realize "hate" is a strong word.
That's why I used it.
2. If you cut in front of me in your small car, barely missing my front bumper, because you couldn't wait 60 seconds for me to pass and get behind me, then proceed to drive slower than I was to begin with...you've earned a spot in automotive hell. I've already booked you a room.
3. If you think that driving a large farm truck or semi grants you the right to drive like a bat out of hell, 20 mph over the speed limit, you, sir, are a douche.
4. If you move to the passing lane so you can pass a semi and then proceed to drive next to it for two miles, my disdain for you cannot be adequately put into words. But the words "fuck you" have a nice ring to them.
5. If you weave in and out of traffic without using your blinker/indicator/light that flashes on and off and tells people your intentions, turn in your license immediately and satisfy your idiocy playing Pole Position.
6. If you cut in front of me and slow down, I will ride your bumper like Seabiscuit. Saddle up, bitch.

Grins*

Shutterstock Day 2

I'm trying all sorts of word combinations to find some usable pictures.  Sensual.  Intimate.  Couples.
I keep running into vagina face.  Attractive man.  That beard though...
I'm also seeing a LOT of submissive women.  Not about that life.  Certainly not what I'm looking for to use.
Then there's a naked chick holding an avocado behind her back.  Is this code for something?
Holy shit, there's a lot of ass.  Too much ass.
Or boobs.
For the love of God.

The pattern also holds for men are okay kissing men, but women cannot let their lips touch.  Pop a sucker in-between them.
*eye roll*

I'm having a hard time, haha, finding something I truly enjoy looking at and that I would welcome to represent my work.

Tan lines.  No.
Ass in air.  No.
Models so thin even France wouldn't let them walk the catwalk.  No.

I feel like Meghan Trainor right now.

Better luck later.
Maybe I'll put the cover aside for a couple of days and check through the stories again.

Grins*

I'm incredibly picky

Realized that most of my short stories rights reverted back to me.  So I'll be finding some covers and releasing them on Amazon.
"Unbreak My Heart" was my first Amazon release solo under C'ann Inman.  I now have around half a dozen more that I'll put up.
But finding the right cover?
Oh.  Good.  Lord.
Trying Shutterstock first.  That's where I found my other cover.  And it was perfect.
Unfortunately, I've been through 106 pages thus far and found only around 7 images.
sigh
I don't like models staring at the camera.  I don't like a high cheese factor.  I don't need a pornographic cover, but I'd like something to convey sensuality without the fucktuality.
You know?
There is an incredibly attractive male model with lots of pictures to offer, but he has a beard.
Now.
I don't mind a beard.  Never have.  On some men, I actually prefer it.
But every time I see a picture of this guy, it looks like a vagina on his face.
On.  His.  Face.
I just...can't.
Some of the images are all cuddly.  That's great.  Cuddle.  After you screw each other's legs off.
Work with a woman!!!
These are Erotic Romance offerings.

It's like you have the photographic seven dwarfs:  Slutty, Stupid, Cheesy, Contrived, Hopeless, Idiotic, and Pained.
And if I see one more person blowing me a kiss, I'm going to lose my shit.

Puts my short ass in a foul mood.  I found one cover that will fit with one of the short stories.  That's the brilliant part.
But who, in their right mind, needs a woman holding a rose in front of her nipple?  Or, fuck my life, the duckface?  Then you can have the model hold her own boobs, or some guy can do it for her.

There is some weird shit out there, people.  Some damn weird shit.
Grins*

Family Ties

We watched Amy Schumer last night.  Yes.  She's beyond hilarious.  Like way on the other side of it. Her opening comic was alright.  But the first part of the show was actually her brother, Jason Stein, and his jazz trio.
Even I, who know quite a few words, have none to accurately describe his set.
Picture a grown man assaulting a bass clarinet.  I'm calling his instrument a victim because what he put it through was unholy.

I played clarinet all through jr. high and high school.  I loved it.  I loved band.  And I also love listening to live music.  So my hopes were pretty damn high when they came out.

I'd brought ear plugs because I tend to have sensory overload, and I knew the show would be loud. Mr. Stein hit the first note, and I nearly dropped my purse because I was fumbling around for the ear plugs.  Even when I jammed those bastards in so far they nearly touched, I was still subjected to the sound.

His embouchure was horrific.  That's how his mouth is set on the mouthpiece.  I've listened to purer notes coming from a high school student.  The low notes were splatted out with more spit than air.  The octave above wasn't bad, but there were many squeaks and this awful slurring like he didn't know whether he wanted to hit a high C or the one below it.
*shuddering*

I completely understand Amy wanting to support her brother.  That's what family does.  That's what family SHOULD do, at any rate.
But having to sit through his set was auditory assault.  I literally felt pain.

So perhaps Mr. Stein can work on his chops.  Tighten things up, so to speak.  That would probably be a good idea.

And for those who are looking forward to Amy's upcoming appearances, God bless you.
Warning shot fired.
Grins*

Wet Weekend

Sounds like a title for an Erotic Romance, doesn't it?
ha

But it's actually describing the real possibility here in Oklahoma.  Saturday may be drizzly.  But it's supposed to give us 1"-4" starting Sunday and continuing through the first part of next week.

We're going to see Amy Schumer this evening.  Grab some dinner in Bricktown before.  Then drag our tired asses home and collapse into bed.
Saturday is writing/editing/playing with the words.
Sunday will be church and more playing with the words.

Then back to the day job.

I'd love to see what I could do with actual free time during the week.  I work 40 hours.  I commute nearly 14 hours.

Ever been on a writing jag?  I remember the first time I hit 7000 words in a day.  I felt hollowed out. Couldn't keep my eyes open.  Brain felt like jelly.  Could barely form a cohesive thought.
It was AMAZING!!!

I need that again.
NEED

Pondering writing short stories in my meager free time, in-between the novels, and self-publishing on Amazon.
I simply feel the need to utilize what I have, and there are not a lot of publishers interested in shorter stories.
But some stories are made to be smaller.  They're novel snippets.  Snapshots.  Not the whole photo album.
I'll think on this.
I'm not manic enough as it is.
Grins*

Milestones

My beloved grandson is walking now.  He'll be a year April 30th.
I remember the day he was born.  I remember holding him.  I remember the first time he smiled.  I remember the first time he held his bottle.  I remember the first time he crawled (that was to me, by the way).  I remember when he recognized his name.
His year has been filled with firsts, and I tuck them away in my heart for safekeeping.

Milestones are important.  They mark both beginnings and endings.
We tend to have a lot in our lives.

I'm absolutely horrid with dates.  It's an OCD numbers thing, I think.  But I remember experiences and feelings.

I remember the first time I had a piece of mine, a poem, picked for publication.  I remember being incredibly proud when my babies graduated from high school.  I remember their births.

It's funny.  I've had quite a few not-so-great things happen as well.  They tend to dim after time. While the good things continue to shine.

I only remember the blindingly sharp pain of childbirth if I specifically try to recall it. Otherwise, I skip right over it to when they little ones are in my arms.  I try not to remember my house burning to the ground and usually only do so if I smell smoke.  The pain of rejection or abuse fades into the background unless something crosses my mind as a reminder.

But all the milestones are there.  And they're each important.

We usually don't have beginnings unless we have endings.  I think we, as humans, tend to hold on to things that perhaps we should not hold onto as long as we do.  You can't grasp something else if your hand is already full.

While I'm not going to break out into "Let It Go" (a song, which I know all the words to even though my children are adults), I think it's appropriate to acknowledge  all milestones.

Appreciate your life for the ups and downs.  Dream big.  And if something doesn't fit you, or you've outgrown it...Let.  It.  Go.
*******

Subconscious writing

I don't outline my books.  I know the plot, premise, and characters.
And the title.  I won't start a project without a title.

But every once in awhile, I'll write a scene that fits in the story because it "clicks" with me.  And then later realize how important that scene really was.
Same thing with my five-book series.
A scene in the first book between two characters is pivotal to all five books now.
And I didn't realize that when I wrote it.
I did not.  Realize it.  When I wrote it.
True story.
At least consciously.

But as I puzzle out the books, I began to realize how that minor character and the interaction sets the stage for a much larger scene later on in the last book.

I've written up to the last twenty percent of books only to write a scene that ties back to a much earlier one.  And while I recognized it was a good scene, I didn't grasp the tie-in until I'd finished writing the second one.

Makes my toes curl.

I'm no Steven Moffat.  But who is?  That man can arc something for five years.
lmao

However, I find myself highly tickled when the words not only come, but they stitch themselves beautifully into the story and leave me feeling beyond satisfied.
Grins*

Empathy

I'm empathic.
Not so much that it's debilitating, but often enough that it makes me uncomfortable.

Sometimes people wonder why I'm not emotional for whatever reason.  Why I tamp down on it. Because crying gives me a headache, and I don't like being at the mercy of someone else's emotions.
It's exhausting.

I would like to think that it helps make me a better writer.  To have the ability to feel deeply the pain/fear/love of others.

Sometimes an event will trigger a memory for me, and I'll see it in my head.  Then I have to figure out if I've actually seen it or read it somewhere.  Because for me, it's incredibly vivid.  It did, for all intents and purposes, happen.

It's one of the reasons I don't watch Reality TV.  Living and dying by choices made and being wound up and all out of sorts is stressful.  I also don't care for the backhanded, back door bullshit that is prevalent.  It chips away at my spirit.

I read "A Hunger Artist" by Kafka decades ago.  Then I had the most horrific nightmare where one of my children and I were the ones in the cage.  It still haunts me.

I can avoid all the emotional rigamarole and only see three minutes of pure emotion, and I'm usually wrecked for the day.

Now.  Having established THAT...

...I'm a HUGE fan of "Bones".  I've explained how I missed it the first time 'round and now I'm glued to it on Netflix.
I felt SICK when Zack Addy was in the hospital, and there was that huge revelation about what transpired.  Now I haven't watched the show in probably a week because the next episode is one in which he guest stars.  But I'm not done with his previous episode!!!
It.  Hurts.
Then there was an episode about having to be a dog down, and I just can't.
Nope.

I don't fancy myself a wuss.  I'm incredibly strong-willed and put together fairly well.  I'm intelligent and can easily separate fantasy from reality.
But when my emotions are all compromised, it does a number on me.

However, as a song lyric says, "I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all."
*******

I can't wait.

I'm not a student of the Batman Universe.  And I'm well with that.  I used to watch the show WAY back in the day.  Think Adam West.  Always fond of the Riddler.  Batman with Michael Keaton came out while I was in high school.  Loved him and Jack Nicholson in it.  Kim Basinger did a lot of screaming.  Not a fan.
And I've watched other reincarnations hit the big screen.  Some good.  Some horrid.  I've watched the cartoon which I think is exceptionally done.
But THIS facet of that universe?
Are you freakin' KIDDING ME???  I haven't been this excited since "Jurassic World" and "Guardians of the Galaxy" before that.
What a cast.  What a concept.
With humor and angst and shoot 'em ups.
*sigh*
I'm in Chrys Heaven.
I realize that some hardcore individuals are not happy with Leto as The Joker and Margot Robbie as Harley Quinn.
I think the proof will be in the pudding, my friends.
And I'm grabbing a big ol' spoon.
Grins*

Lesser of two evils

"Between two evils, I always pick the one I never tried before."~~Mae West~~

This reads like a motivational poster for the wicked and amoral.  But it also reads as an instructional booklet.

I tend to, ah, buck up against my boundaries.  I'm convinced it was because I was such a good child.  *grins*

I did what I was told.  I made good grades.  I was a nice person.  

And yet...shit still happened.

Bullying, of course.  Various forms of abuse.  Bad thoughts.  Stress.  Depression.

Evil incarnate.

But then I grew up.  And I made decisions on my own for myself and for my children when they arrived.  I've endeavored to show them how to be good people and help others.  Guess what?

Shit STILL happened.

The fucking nerve.

So now that I'm older and a bit wiser, I've come to the conclusion that most evil is relative.  I'm not talking about the hardcore shit violating the ten commandments and whatnot.  That's a hard line for me.  

I'm more talking about eating at the Cheesecake Factory when you're on a diet and not getting cheesecake.  It seems painfully obvious to me that sometimes you DO need to pick the evil you've never tried before.  

How else will you have new experiences and form new thoughts?  How will you come to appreciate the good for itself if you only choose it and have no comparison?  And, gasp, what if you LIKE the evil you've never tried before???

What would happen?

I think smiting is out.  That seems to be old school.  People may look down on you.  Then again, people will look down on you if you're not wearing the right clothes.  Fuck them, basically.  

What is the absolute WORST thing that could happen?  THE WORST???  

You regret your decision?  The person, food, clothing, or sport is not your cup of tea?

Awesome.

Look at you.  Adulting and stuff.

If no one, including you, is being hurt, then please explain to me the harm in your choice.  Would your mother lose her mind if she knew?  Maybe.  Would your father be incredibly disappointed?  Maybe.  

But they have their own skin.  Own thoughts.  Own choices.  Own life.

This is YOUR life.  Let me repeat:  YOUR.  LIFE.

You have the right to make good choices and bad choices.  You have the right to royally fuck up and then turn around and make the best decision you've ever made.  You have the right.  Period.

So.

Those two "evils"?  You own those bitches. 

Embrace your life.  

And for God's sake...eat the damn cheesecake.

*******

Every story is a love story

Yes.
I said it.

I'm prone to tangents.  I untether my mind and let it wander about.  It's interesting.

When I say every story is a love story, I mean it.

Love of another.  Romance Happily-Ever After.
Love of an object/item.  More like idol worship.
Love of self.  Any self-help book on the shelf.
Absence of love.  Any non-fiction that tells of war/hate.
Love of violence.  True Crime stories.
Love of animals.  Rescue stories.
Love of the unknown.  Adventure stories.

No matter what book you pick up, there will be love or the absence of love.  The love will be twisted and possessive.  Or the love will be hidden and demure.
But there will be love.

It's a funny thing, love.  It's an intense feeling of deep affection.  And we all have that.  Though some of us don't have it for other beings, we have it for other things.  If we're lucky, then we have both.

I love words.  Absolutely love them.  I want to snatch them from a piece of paper and crush them in my hand and rub them into my skin.  I want to roll them around on my tongue and taste the bitter and the sweet.  I want to inhale them into my being and let them disperse in my soul.

Every story deserves to be told.  All of them.  Whether to instruct or deconstruct.  Positive or negative.  Learning or leaving.  The story, itself, stands.

But perspective.  Ah, she's another beast.

We bring our perspective to everything in our lives.  Our jobs and family.  Our relationships and interactions.  Nothing we say or do is objective, even if we try to be.

But if you do everything with love, that will shine through.  People may hate it.  But that's okay.  That's their perspective.  That is their experience.
And we should have enough faith in our offering that we are able to understand how it may not suit everyone.
Even on the most beautiful day, someone will say it's too hot/cold.
But you and I?
Let's enjoy it.  Let's, shall we say, love it.  Because anything written from the heart is a love story.
Grins* 

IMDb

I LOVE IMDb.
Like lots of love.
Like the app has a precious place on my iPhone.

I have access to movies when they're fairly new.  And that's all well and good.  But the time? Spending two hours of precious time watching something that may be good or may make you want to pull your eyelashes out.
Not a fan.
Or being all hyped up about a certain movie only to have it suck ass from the get-go.  I'm talking to you (Green Lantern) Ryan Reynolds.  I did laugh my ass off during "Deadpool" so we may find a middle ground yet.

But IMDb feeds my story fetish in a timely manner.  I've taken to reading the synopsis of several movies.  One of the last ones I read was "The Revenant".  The only DiCaprio movie I've ever watched was "Inception".  And I enjoyed its confusing criss-cross.  Still unsure of the ending.  *shrug*  Even though the talented man won an Oscar for it, I knew I would not spend time watching the movie even though it sounded interesting.
So I read it.
And I'm good.
(Funny offshoot.  I started to call Leo the "talented YOUNG man".  Then I had to Google his age only to find out he's three measly years younger than myself.  It matters not.  He is so incredibly DYNAMIC.)

I can either spend two hours watching a movie, or I can IMDb it, spend three minutes reading the synopsis, and then move one with my life.
I love it.

And the movies that I'm looking forward to?  I couldn't tell you how many times I watched the "Guardians of the Galaxy" trailers before I saw it in the theater.  Right now I'm stuck on "Suicide Squad".  I can't wait.

I find it a more efficient use of my time.  When I read the story, I can picture it in my mind.  I don't need surround sound or a ten dollar bucket of popcorn.  I only need the written word and my imagination.
So I can spend that other one-hundred seventeen doing something I KNOW is productive.
Or, you know, watching more IMDb trailers.
Grins*

Day off tomorrow

I'm so damn excited!!!

First of all, I will be able to sleep in.  Past five.  In the morning.  When it's dark outside.
Second of all, I believe I'll be dropping by Sprouts.  They're building one about a mile away from my house, but they have miles to go on that, and I'm digging their sale.
Third of all, I'm not going into the day job.  Nope.  Not happening.  Whatever cluster of debacle goes on tomorrow...I care not.

I'm nearly giddy.  I think the last time I had Friday off, I was sick.  That's not conducive to anything.  And while I'm sure the day will fly by as days off are wont to do...it's still mine all mine.
*rubs hands together with glee*

Will work on writing and agents and editing and my literary world.  Working the day job Saturday so that day is shot.  Sunday will be...I DON'T KNOW YET!
And isn't it simply grand???

Just have to make it 'til five today.  Then go visit my sweet baby grandson.  Then an hour and twenty commute.  Then I will be home.
Oh, man.
Sometimes it IS the little things.
Grins*

A bit eclectic

I like lots of things.
I rarely pop myself in one group because that's too confining.
As for music, I enjoy everything from Classical to Hard Rock.  Country to Soundtrack.  Opera to Jazz.  If it touches me, I really don't give two shits what "genre" it's classified.

I also utilize this in writing books.
Yes.  I write romance.  I LOVE romance.  It's been the backbone of my reading pleasure for more years than I care to admit.  I will admit, however, that I was a precocious child.
Things have not changed.

But with the romance, I like to spread out.  I've written Contemporary, Time Travel, Erotic, Paranormal, and Fantasy.
And now that I'm looking for an agent, I wonder if they're looking for someone who will stay in the niche that they've painted themselves in.

I'm currently working on a five-book series Fantasy Romance, an Erotic Paranormal, and a Philosophical Fiction.
One may look at these and think that they couldn't possibly have anything in common.
But they do.
Me.

I actually think several writers have a diversified view of their works.  And I've listened to local bestselling authors who are stepping AWAY from their bread and butter to check out the buffet.
I love that.
I believe that the more you listen to yourself and your own voice, that you simply cannot go wrong.

So if you've an idea for a multi-genre story or even a story with different elements than the norm...GO FOR IT.
It's never been done.
Until it is.
*******

Trying to be Zen

Note the word "trying".

Zen, in my definition, is the attainment of enlightenment where the bullshit doesn't touch you.  I don't think Webster said that EXACTLY, but I'm paraphrasing.

I endeavor to be Zen.
But I find it incredibly difficult to try to embrace the peace and light while I have an hour to an hour and twenty minute commute every morning and late afternoon/early evening.
And thank you SO much, Oklahoma DOT or DPS or whoever the hell decided to resurface pieces of the highway I take to work and home one mile at a time stretching out over three months.
Kudos, you asshats.

But my issue does NOT lie with them.  (Totally random:  They are using like these flame thrower things on the concrete.  It is uber awesome.)
My issue lies with all the sorry ass hayseed mofos out there who do not use turn signals at all, who slam on brakes, and who think that speed limits are mere suggestions.
I loathe your being.

I work to bring a peace to myself in the morning when I arrive at the day job.  That lasts until a few certain people act like Godzilla to my mental township leaving anger and destruction in their wake.

I try to recenter myself in the afternoon, about halfway through my day, so that I may try to find some semblance of calmness in this hectic world.

It's hard.
And I don't mean "putting pantyhose" on hard.  I mean "the world spits on you" hard.

It seems like this world likes to smack us about and snicker.  And sometimes it's all I can do not to throw up my hands and scream "FUCK IT" as loud as I possibly can.
Now you know why I used the word "trying".
*grins*

But I don't.

I take a deep breath.  I blow it out.  I think of my kids.  Or my grandson.  My Honey.  My writing.  I think of all the good that I have, and I realize that while I may never reach that Zen status, I'm not quite ready to yell "fuck it" quite yet.
*******

Great premise. Shitty book.

I weep for these situations.

Premise is basically the idea of the story.  The foundation on which a writer builds his/her story.  It is germane to the entire creation.

I'm a voracious reader.  I find myself bending toward teen fiction right now.  Easy reads.  Interesting plots.  So on and so forth.  I've also taken to downloading ebooks from Overdrive.  I can read them in my browser, and if I really enjoy them, I may pick up the paperback.

But it's a sad day when I read the synopsis of a book and pick it up, only to find that I'm incredibly disappointed with the finished product.
I'm trying out the first book in a trilogy about witches and paths that they choose.  Great premise. But the heroine?  She's not TSTL (too stupid to live), but she's highly annoying.  She's whiny and angsty and so helpless that I want to flick her to see if she can focus.

Because...MY GOD!!!  You have so much material here.  You could have made it a fantastic story where I wanted to keep reading until the wee hours of the morning.
I'm right under less than halfway, and I'm believe I'm done with it.

It pains me.
Truly.

If you've a brilliant premise, then please!!!  Please put everything you've got into it.  Make your characters live and breathe and cry and scream.  Use vivid descriptions.  Utilize dynamic dialogue. But most of all???

Do the premise justice.  Do YOURSELF justice.  It's not easy, but it's a hell of a lot better than half-assed storytelling just so you can type "The End".

*******

Where everybody knows your name

Names have power.
I firmly believe this.

We're encouraged to wear name tags at work.
Yeah.
Mine is at my desk.

You have members of the community that you really don't want to know your name speaking to you with a familiarity reserved for decade-old friends and family.
Sir.
Excuse me.
You DO NOT know me.
Step.

Or the time a gentleman asked me my name while I was working on the floor, and I told him.
No, I most certainly didn't want to.
Then the asshat went to the front desk and threw my name out like I referred him for the job posted.
Oh, I was so displeased.

I'll answer to Ma'am.  Miss.  Crystal.  Chrys.  Various other names from family and offspring.  Mimi to grandson.
But there is an intimacy in a name.  Your identity and experience are tied all up in there.

I'm often asked why I kept "Inman" as my last name after the divorce.  Quite simply, all my children have that last name.  And I wanted to keep THAT tie even though I severed the one with their father. So I'm building my professional career on a name that I married into and divorced out of.

That is what's important to me.  And it's a name that my children can now be proud of having.

Grins*

Do what you want

Permissive, aren't I?
heh

I sometimes wax philosophical.  This last weekend, quick though it was, seemed to be a stellar time for this.
And it came to me Saturday evening...what if everyone did what they wanted???
I'm speaking occupationally right now.
What if all people who wanted to be teachers were teachers?  And doctors were doctors?  And artists were artists?
What would that look like?
I firmly believe that we wouldn't have 50% in the medical field while only 10% in the teaching profession.  I honestly think it would all even out.
Because how many people out there are NOT where they want to be?  Working that 40+ work week with minimum wage but maximum stress?
Maybe you'd like to be an artist but went to nursing school.  Maybe you're a teacher but would like to be a lawyer.  Maybe you're a carpenter but would like to study ballet.

I think it would be beautiful.

What's that saying?  Love what you do, and you won't work a day in your life.  I'm paraphrasing and too lazy to look it up right now.  It's past four o'clock on a Monday afternoon.  I'm lucky my eyelids are not at half-mast.

But could you IMAGINE???

I'm not speaking of some dystopian clusterfuck like Divergent.  I'm not about the pigeonhole or anything of the like.
I'm speaking of true aptitude and need for spirit to find its niche.

It would be beautiful.
I simply know it.
*******

What weekend???

I commute.
A.  LOT.

I drive an hour each way, and it tends to wear on me come the end of the week.  Friday is completely shot since I don't arrive home until well after six, closer to seven.  Saturday should be the day of rebalance, but it never seems to be.  I'm sitting here and trying to remember what I did yesterday. Honestly.  Right now...it escapes me.  Today was church and then food prep for the week.
I've found out that the more I plan out during the week, the less stress I tend to accumulate.
Because, dear ones, isn't life stressful enough???

Now I'm sitting here at my desk.  It's almost six.  And this day is just...gone.  Poof.  I've done food prep and dishes and treadmill, and I'm flat tired.
I've looked at the day job schedule, and the week stretches out in front of me like that road painting that Wile. E. Coyote splashes on the rock, and the Road Runner zips right through.
Interminable.

I'm entirely convinced that this world is spinning faster.  That an hour, twenty years ago, is not the same as an hour now.  If time is wibbly-wobbly, then I believe it's wibbled a bit quicker over the years.
Rarely do I have time to simply enjoy.  Sit with the sun on my face.  Tap out a story with my writing playlist in my ears.  Weed the flower gardens and plant some seeds.  Sit with my grandson and just enjoy his perspective.

I've come to realize that time is a precious commodity, and I've also come to the point where I don't like to waste mine.  If I open a book, and it's complete trash...I'm done.  If I start a TV show on Netflix, and it numbs my mind...I'm done.

Time is ephemeral.  While some may think that's redundant, I believe it's quite apt.
Sixty seconds can be a lifetime.  Sixty years can be gone in the snap of your fingers.

Think I'll work on this a bit.  Maybe try to work my way around to not feeling like time is slipping through my fingers.
Work on being in the present.
Love those sixty seconds like the gift they are.
Grins*

Truck love

I tend to treadmill in the evening.  On the weekend, I walk during the day, and my treadmill faces the car wash.
I watched three men buff their trucks.  It was the damndest thing.
They were different ethnicities.  Two white trucks and one dark blue.  And they were polishing the hell out of these inanimate objects.
It tickled me.
Not going to lie.  I didn't understand it.  But I had to respect the commitment.
Then I began to wonder...are they like this with all facets of their lives?  Do they polish their relationships with friends/spouses/children?
I found it fascinating.
Or were they simply showering their love on this machine that didn't give two shits about them?
Was it all for show?  Was it pride?  Something else?
I wanted nothing more to swim in their heads and pluck out the answers.

I wanted their STORIES.
And I wanted them badly.

Did they grow up poor with old automobiles?  Did they procure a dream job that allowed them to have the truck of their fantasies?  Were they like male birds preening and polishing to attract a mate?

I never found out, of course.
It's a pity.

But I think that I'll file that away for another day and another story of my making.
Everything is fodder, dear ones.
Everything.
Grins*