Lulu Lunacy

You know what? This writing thing, I'll tell you what, it's weird. I haven't figured it out yet. I don't understand it and sometimes it infuriates me. I wrote my first story along with illustrations, at 7. It's some weird, strange gravitational pull feeling to put the pen against the paper and make words roll out of the end. Make those words sound pleasing together, to ME, not to some formula or rule or structure. I don't understand this irritating conflicted urge to both *show* others what I've written and hide the hell out of it, denying even it's existence. I've actually shredded hundreds of pages because of that urge over the years. The small, short collection I have left must mean something deeper to me. Maybe a little bit of vanity and/or legacy, that maybe one day my family will finally read something and realize I was just a little deeper or clever then they had thought. Look at me! No! Don't look! WTF is that shit? Luckily, being on m...

For whatever reason, Facebook altering the "mood" of the Feed or just people picking up on the same theme of a few reposted sayings; I've been seeing so much over the last few weeks about thinking/being positive and being happy is a choice. Believe me you, I tried. I tried so hard for so long. It was like mining, every day I would go to work with my pick and with everything I had, go at that dark, stifling underground of resistant rock with my polished, shining pick, flashing brilliantly in the dust filled muted ray of light struggling down, striking in a dazzling tiny shower of sparks, tiny stars lighting the edge of the black hole lurking beside me, that feeling of what could be hidden just below the surface, something amazing just waiting for the proper angle of my next strike...that never comes. Oh, I get the thin, reedy vein of something momentarily in the right light flashing and promising...it may be a lesser find. It will momentarily fund the repair of my pick or...