I just survived 80 miles in the car with my mother. That would be a round trip figure. I also just spent 75 dollars on jewelry that I'm not sure I'll even like. I have expensive taste. My mother told me that Built to Spill reminded her of the Beatles...

It's Friday night and I have nothing better to do. I'm all dressed up and have no one around to admire me. Oh well.

I have issues with endings. More than likely that is the basis for my having problems finishing things that I start. These past few months carrying a story past 100 words has been a struggle, but then there are those that border on 1000 but I just can't seem to find the right ending. My fiction isn't so clear cut in my mind, like it used to be. I find myself lingering endlessly on details and wording- procrastinating. Too many good things come to an end too quickly for me. Maybe my brain is protesting. It's seriously almost a disease at this point. You've heard of anorexia or OCD, I'm sure, well this is almost like that. Combined. And having little to do with food (which is actually much like most cases of anorexia really).

I don't want it to end. I want to linger there in the moments of my prose forever, where life is simplified through text, as long as you're brave enough to read between the lines...