I write every day whether I like it or not. In about three years I'll stop.
“Chris, you should come out with us. Meet some new people. Make a friend. Maybe get laid.” Teeter said.
“Just three steps?”
“That’s four steps. And no. But those are the highlights.”
Teeter could say shit like that and make it sound true.
I had planned for more, but technological and biological event conspired otherwise.
Word Count: 60
Day: 143
I am considering dropping the day count numbering to the main body of the posts rather than having them so prominently in the title. I suspect this will aid in my gaining more SEO respect as well as conserving the space available on this Blogrush widget I’ve added. Since it’s my blog and my DB I can always get into the body with a query. If I wanted to somehow recreate the day count part of the title for some future reason.
It makes this whole thing look like a project. I am not going to deliver it to a customer once I hit day 1001. It won’t get packaged and sold–or shelved.
A post each day is evidence enough that I’ve written as I vowed. The numbers are really for me to track where I am. Why publish them?
Word count has been bugging me too. But I think it should bug me since it’s purpose is to goad. I’ll keep it around for a bit.
Also, we need a weekly limit on these crap maintenance posts.
The course skin of the square stemmed mint made it easy to uproot from the warm soil.
James could tell from the irregular pattern of the upholstery that the couch was old and had in the presence of cats.
“It’s worse than the felling of pulling off ice cubes frozen to your finger tips.”
The glossy surface of the piano reflected all light, but skin was drawn in. The old masterpiece felt like cream.
“I hate that remote.” “Huh?” “The plastic on the bottom isn’t right. I feels furry.”
To the unfamiliar friend seemed like velvet: supple, smooth, appealing. To me she was a lint brush.
The charcoal crunched in my palms as I stirred the cold pieces with the tip of my thumb. Their black surface more interested in becoming part of me than remaining with its hunk, brushed off like talc.
Christine rubbed the sweat of her forehead back into her dark hair. She pulled drops from her nose and squeegeed her neck. One more mile to go.
The metal surface of the old truck didn’t feel like anything, but would in half a moment. A reflex jerked Javier’s hand away. “Son of a bitch that’s hot!”
Ben could breathe again. Cold water from the sink poured over his hand. His nausea subsided for the first time since 2 am.
The fine desert sand was as difficult to hold as oil. It drained from his grasp as easily. It clung to his skin as desperately.