Not feeling tortured at every turn can be a challenge as a writer. Sometimes I feel it would be much easier if I had something to hate more, if I liked cigarettes and long tall dizzying drinks, if I had more black in my closet or disparaging opinions hanging around. What am I thinking anyway? Writing about trees and rocks and dirt and sky and moon and weird things like feet and lightning and supernatural phenomenon? I mean you should probably feel sorry for me or something; at least that would be writer-ish - if I could get someone to feel sorry for me. Then I would brood aimlessly and act indulgent. Gosh that would be cool.
I'm not cool. That's just it. I'm way too warm and fuzzy to be cool. I like to sniff people. I like to slurp things. I talk to inanimate objects - affectionately. I light candles and pray to stuff, or about stuff - either. I do cry sometimes, but then I laugh about it. I laugh and laugh and laugh, hard and loud and not in a very hip way at all. Nope, not very hip...not at all.
So about those rocks...