Welcome back to me! I actually got my account reactivated by a benevolent benefactor! If you are that lucky person, let me know and I can reward you handsomely.
In the meanwhile here is a bit of writing I finished today:
Game starts on a lavender schooner crammed with ogres and the seasoned captain, known him since I was a grasshopper, quicktimes an heirloom dagger into the chest of a raster Big Bad with poor programming that, upon deletion, squelches like a centipede wriggling behind my sternum up to my jawbone sewing up canker sores.
Then silence; and a diet of cigarettes and fire ants.
Given the chance, I'll steal a pancreas to raise some scratch for an online pack of buffalo fat, a sack of snot, trundle of jumper cables, and a slapped face in camo guest-star the detention center to keep my Bro from venison machines and knives for tossing a flower pot.
And while I'm there, I could drop a ballpoint pen on your puny name in the phonebook and make you drop a teacup three planets over. Clean up niceMidwest, Goodwill dressed, blood-rushed face and a ballistics resistant bullet in my palm.
I'm not an asshole, just a bucket of mud with words dead to rights in the town's public, unlimited webcast tossing like a garden weasel in a Posturepedic trying to sleep, and dream, with a bag of cats on his face.
Are you there, God? It's me, Slimer.
Can I come home?
In the meanwhile here is a bit of writing I finished today:
Game starts on a lavender schooner crammed with ogres and the seasoned captain, known him since I was a grasshopper, quicktimes an heirloom dagger into the chest of a raster Big Bad with poor programming that, upon deletion, squelches like a centipede wriggling behind my sternum up to my jawbone sewing up canker sores.
Then silence; and a diet of cigarettes and fire ants.
Given the chance, I'll steal a pancreas to raise some scratch for an online pack of buffalo fat, a sack of snot, trundle of jumper cables, and a slapped face in camo guest-star the detention center to keep my Bro from venison machines and knives for tossing a flower pot.
And while I'm there, I could drop a ballpoint pen on your puny name in the phonebook and make you drop a teacup three planets over. Clean up niceMidwest, Goodwill dressed, blood-rushed face and a ballistics resistant bullet in my palm.
I'm not an asshole, just a bucket of mud with words dead to rights in the town's public, unlimited webcast tossing like a garden weasel in a Posturepedic trying to sleep, and dream, with a bag of cats on his face.
Are you there, God? It's me, Slimer.
Can I come home?