I figured it out!
I'm going to have Character Sketch Thursdays.
Why?
because Character starts with a "ch" and Thursday starts with a "th".
this may not make sense to you.
but the beauty of it is, it doesn't have to.
and I'm pretty sure y'all know the drill--
if you don't like it...
that's right, girls--
get out your dildos,
guys, come on, find that bottle of lotion--
and
GO
FUCK
YOURSELVES.
heh.
but really, I think it'll be a lot of fun--
and I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner.
I should eat more sugar.
I'm buzzzzzzzzzzing.
and that reminds me that I recently mentioned that sugar and caffeine don't affect me.
I should have added that sugar sometimes affects me--
but NEVER to the extent that other people talk about.
either that, or I just love the buzz.
or maybe I'm so perpetually high on sugar, that I rarely notice the source.
hm.
food for thought.
what kind of food, though?
I'm going to go with either chocolate dipped strawberries or german chocolate cake.
why?
because I just made both of those.
the cake was from scratch--
again.
yes, the same one i made for hubby's birthday on sunday.
the problem was, he didn't feel like eating any that night,
and then he left first thing monday for a bees wax trip*,
so of course, what little was left is now...
not.
this post occured to me,
while i was folding someone else's laundry
with a HIGHLY unlikely country song prancing through my head.
oh, yes--
prancing.
and I guess it wasn't that unlikely...
it's not like it was Conway Twitty or Dolly Parton.
just Shania.
see?
I'm even on first name basis with her,
so I don't know what kind of denial game I was playing just then,
but YES, I know the song "I feel like a woman", alright?
alright.
AND.
that reminds me.
I really and truly might have to write my first piece of fanmail EVER.
either that or get "Bo Bice" tattooed on my ass and then beg him to look at it.
I know you think I'm just being dramatic and silly about this,
but I really feel like he's my soul mate.
it's a serious issue.
ok, ok, I'm still being a dumbass.
but truly...
when he sings, I undergo a visceral reaction.
everything changes--
my breathing, my heartrate--
and I usually let out small whimpers.
heh.
I'm serious about the soul mate thing, though.
I think I better let him know.
Oh, shit.
is today Thursday?
well, faaaack.
I guess that means I better write a character sketch.
problem is, it's actually wednesday.
but I'm not going to post again, because i've double posted like 3 days in a row,
and I'm afraid I'll wear you guys out.
I mean, hell, you COULD take some viagra and then we'd be good to go,
but I don't want you hurting yourselves.
Ok, so deep breath, psycho sugar beast,
hit "save as draft"
and write
the
damn
character sketch
on Thursday.
as god intended.
or me, but, y'know--
po-tay-toes, po-tah-toes, right?
Okay, so it's now Thursday, and I'm ready to rumble.
no, that's just my tummy...
I'm ready to write.
so the reason I like this idea is that I need to stretch out and actually write stuff, and having a little direction is good for me.
also, I do this thing--
I imagine y'all do it, too.
when I see a person, just walking on the street or standing in line somewhere...
and I see their whole life, or their whole day--
I see it.
yes, it's my imagination,
no I don't think I'm psychic.
(ok, maybe a little)
so that's kind of what I plan to write here,
little sketches of people,
real or imagined...
ready, set, go---
Character Sketch numero uno:
faaaack.
I got NOTHIN.
erg.
sometimes, when I try to make myself write a certain thing, I just can't do it.
this seemed like such a great plan last night...
ok, maybe I'll start with someone real, just to warm up...
He walked through the halls of that tiny, echo-y high school in a daze. He didn't sleep--ever--and it was beginning to take its toll. Devon hated his last name. He hated his face, he hated the memories that he didn't have of the father who gave him both. He had blocked out the funeral, and how he had been allowed to sit on the edge of the casket, his baby voice begging his daddy to wake up. His reality included only his mother and her various boyfriends over the years. His reality was based on the partying and the fighting and the squalor in which he had somehow managed to grow. He kicked his chair before taking his seat, and let his book drop noisily to the desk. He stretched his legs defiantly across the aisle, stonily ignoring anyone's attempts to pass him. His eyes bore a hole through the corner of the blackboard, and seemed unable to move--unwilling, at least. When the teacher asked him to please sit up straight, he was, of course, ignored. Devon was lost inside his own head, a sneer placed carefully there to ward off interuption. The moustached geek of a history teacher was like a mosquito buzzing at the outside of a double paned window. The man's polite requests reached a fever-pitch, and his normally quiet voice began to squeak, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. Devon's sneer shifted...slightly. His focus moved instantly from that spot somewhere beyond the wall of the classroom to the mousy teacher's eyes. It was so sudden, so severe, that the man's voice caught, mid-sentence, leaving his mouth gaping for just a moment. Devon held his eyes for several long seconds, then, still having not heard (really heard) a word his teacher had said, he stood, slowly, as if in a dream. His movements seemed fluid and easy, almost as if he had been joking the whole time. The teacher's posture relaxed, as his logic told him the trouble-maker was heading to the office, as he'd been instructed. Just as Devon passed Mr. LeBlanc, his left hand flew from its pocket and appeared to slap the man's chest. He kept walking. The classroom behind him exploded into shrieks, as the blood spilled out of his gaping abdomen, just before he crumpled to the ground. Devon was in his camaro, lighting his second marlboro red, before he heard sirens. He took a comfortable drag, and let his foot lie a little more heavily on the already-low gas pedal. "Good girl," he murmured as the needle leapt from 85 to 105.
____________
* mind your own bees wax : bees wax trip :: mind your own business : _____________
sorry for the SAT flashback, Dex...
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