but I did come up with some good stuff. Like this:
“You didn’t have to be so ruthless.” I glared at her and she reveled in her incredulity.
That’s kind of how we worked, hot and cold, vapor and ice; I could never match her heat and she couldn’t melt me down so we could coalesce as pure water. She was the kind of woman who could stick you with a blade, twist it, watch me squirm until I passed out, and then write jokes with my blood. If I wasn’t knee deep in mud, I would have gotten her a typewriter. We were lovers on the sly, covert paramours: as long as we never used our real names and never kissed each other on the mouth, everything would be bliss.
...
I couldn't come up with an ending for this. If you've read anything else I've written, I have a tell-tale cathartic last line, and I couldn't seem to nail one down here, but in a way, it works. Nevertheless, I'm going to edit, revise, and complete this piece soon. I so detest editing: I'm Ginsbergian in my writing style, and live by his mantra: "first thought, best thought." However, I don't think this IS a thought, at least, it isn't a complete one, and I owe it to myself to see this through.
In other, less interesting news, I have shingles. Probably because I'm so fucking stressed. The fact that I can't return to work, despite a doctor's note clearing me to work, is only exacerbating said stress. Och, I'm a fucking mess, kiddos.