the dog days of summer

Can you conjure up the image of a puppy being taken on a leashed walk for the first time in it's life? A design so foreign to a mind so free. The puppy roots itself into the sidewalk and doesn't budge. Even fifteen pounds of dead weight feels like a hundred when you are the opposing force.

This is my writing. Here is the leash. See it trailing along as I attempt to walk along? Well this puppy is thirty two years old now and he is fucking heavy. This sly dog even plays games with his master; pretending to walk along for a distance before breaking leash and disappearing for months on end. He comes back somber and skinny but leaves nothing to explanation as to where he was or how he feels.

I've never gotten very far with him on these walks except for the few times we were lost in the woods. Those times we were lost and desperate, he ran so far ahead of me that I could barely keep up. This old dog doesn't learn new tricks but he surely learns from his mistakes. These days we cant even get in sight of the woods before he breaks away from me, bites my hand or just plays dead.

If you have any tips on how to get the old stubborn mutt to take walks and eventually run free like he did when he was a pup, feel free to let me know. I am desperate.

this is a rant. or I am so stupid. or I hate everything.

It is very difficult to find a roommate that you get along with. It is even more difficult to find a roommate that you are friends with and can live with harmoniously without the friendship taking advantage of certain situations. Well she is an awesome roommate. The best ever. I couldn't ask for a better person to live with. Consider this the only positive flow of information to be in this particular blog. Consider that a warning.

Fucking neighbors. I am an extremely introverted person as it is and you are only pushing me to upgrading to sociopath status. I have found a growing interest in large quantities of lye, bulk orders of twenty by twenty sheets of waterproof plastics and how to start my very own pig farm. No joke. Simply writing these things online makes me feel uneasy as I truly contemplate their deaths. Those last couple words made me smile.

I feel that over the years my karma has balanced out well enough. I am a good person and feel that my bad times have been paid out in full by me at some point in the past. Obviously this is not true. It is a false statement. It is the exact opposite of truth. In my past lives I can only assume I was Stalin, Genghis Khan, Attila the Hun and the Spice Girls.

Where to start?

Myownbaby

Do I have a style? I have been told that my writing is very "unique" and isn't like other writers. That may possibly be the equivalent of saying a persons newborn baby is "breathtaking". I am glad that I can be somewhat identified as a writer. God knows my art/hand side lacks a name or distinguishable face. I can't honestly tell you what my 3 words would be. I have failed this assignment. My mission is to write without fear or blocks or pride. I don't need to create over the top scenes or white knuckle suspense if it is real to me. I want to grab the reader by the heart (...hand, or hair) and give them the same sense I have felt from reading books all my life. It is so much more than a movie! This is a very personal experience that can't be compared to watching a film and because of that I feel that my writing must reach a person on some sub level, some sort of subconsciousness, that can only be found by leaving my pride at the door. I have always considered my writing to be a part of therapy, for myself and anyone else that can see through the bullshit. Identifiable as a style? I have no clue.