The dog next door won’t stop barking. He’s probably home alone again. Will it be one week or three this time? I’d save him if he were better behaved, but dogs take after their owners.
I bark back at him. He’s probably lonely. My other neighbors probably think I’m mad. I am.
I looked for writing prompts and it’s a big vat of uninspiring dog shit. The circle-jerk of every industry selling to their own when they can’t sell to the intended audience. I’m allergic to cannibalistic marketing.
I haven’t been publishing much lately. I thought it was because I was too grounded, settled, calm. I realize it’s because I’ve become too certain in my opinions and that’s more dangerous when you grew up the way I did.
I swap nude photos with a friend. Wine drunk and willful rabbit-in-a-hat. I’ve become a cloistered nun. Next year I’ll be clutching pearls, officially. An article asks why Millenials are more comfortable having casual sex than Gen Z. Damn, I miss when nobody had a literal camera in their hand.
Gifted a metric ton of brown paper bags. A new art project. And a cardboard box I’m now committed to framing. Projects never end, time never ends; unless you’re doing psychedelics.
Giving up social media has never been easier than now. Inundated with AI-generated cow hocks. Once we pass the liminal threshold I’ll give up the internet completely; so serious I’ll swear a vow.
I’ve crafted an elaborate plan to build a labyrinth in my backyard. In the center, nothing seems more fitting than a stripper pole. A dowsing rod, a magick spinner. Witchy woo-hoo — look at her go!
Now, time for me to go.
