I should write a poem in the rhythm of an instrumental jazz song. The palpitations are like punchy, concise speech. "Why'd you walk away? You never listen to what I say. Wait! Wait! W-w-w-wait! (stuttering trumpet) If you pu-u-ull that trigger, baby, you'll miss me...BAM! BAM! Yeah...shhh...yeah".
Here's the plan. I'm going to start (and finish!) that front little bedroom. This will be my art studio. zordac has decreed it. And when it is ready, we will schedule a dress-up-in-costume picture day. Complete with theatrical cosmetics and wigs. I'm going to see if I can get some discount Halloween make-up after the holiday has passed and we'll futz with lighting and backdrops. It'll be great. I've already got coilla and Brooksie signed up.
Must do some readying at fxsupply.com.
Papaw, my grandfather, is dying, slowly. I need to make sure I go home for at least part of Thanksgiving. He's immobile in a hospital bed at the farm now. He gets out of the bed only when my cousin Cole helps him up. Gamaw is unfocused and distraught despite her normal sharpness. She has been carrying for a near-invalid (first her sister, Aunt Margaret; her aunt, Aunt Laura; and now her husband).
Shit I almost posted while drunk after Claus's birthday wine tasting two weekends ago:
If I lost 100 pounds, I wouldn't be afraid of anything.
I would dance. I would flirt. I would walk into a room and not tug my shirt down over my stomach. I wouldn't worry about waddling in my new favorite high heels.