Time to write.

Time to right.
Time to rite.
mmm...I think I like that last one the most.
Time to design an intricate web of rites,
through which some scared young man must pass before reaching...
something.
someone.
somewhere...

Eh, ok, so maybe it's just time to write.
my Hands are dry--and do you like how I pushed the shift key at the start of the wrong work?
(uh..."word", not "work"....)
This is just one more sign of my growing brain tumor.
Another is that I dreamed last night that I had a baby.
Then I forgot I had the baby but remembered that I had been overjoyed by the prospect of breastfeeding--as a weight loss tool--and began searching my house for my old breast pump...
Wow.
That's what I get for going to bed, I guess.
Oh yeah--hand lotion.
be right back.
(as if you'd notice??)
I am back.
(as if you'd notice...)

Oh, to address all the concern in my comments over my mention of the real estate agent offering to buy our house:
All the other homes for sale in our subdivision were already under contract (according to her) and her clients wanted THIS NEIGHBORHOOD.
She sold their house the first day it was listed, so they were anxious to get something before they had to move out.
It's easy to believe because it's the only neighborhood like it in the immediate area.
The rest are much older and most have smaller homes.
If there are other comparable neighborhoods I've never seen them.
So there.
This place is growing so fast it blows my mind.

And who'd like to join me for a hearty helping of "Who gives a fuck?"

I think I am ready to write.
Or rumble...
Yes, I'm ready to rumble.
To rattle and rock and writhe and roll--
I am ready to shake my crazy 8 ball and see what falls out.
Rumble I shall.
And it might just be my tummy...
I'm hungry.