I have just completed an innumerable number of revolutions around my house. This cyclical dance takes place bi-weekly as our lawn is large and continues to grow, despite my many efforts to keep it at bay. Round and round I go, grooving to whichever harmonious tunes my ipod decides to expel. I think about life, how fatback should not be considered food, how I need a new topic for my videos, everything, nothing, and anything in between. It is my peaceful time, the allotted minutes unencumbered by the stresses of life, money, or which dog is suffering from separation anxiety today. My arms want to scream, their leg partners yearning to play a screeching backup, as the steep inclines grow larger, the sizzling sun looking on. When I enter my igloo of a house, I am greeted by my canines who long at last feel peace that I did not leave them forever.
I am currently writing to you from some nondescript forest in the middle of nowhere, snugly nestled into my florescent blue, purple zebra-striped blind, waiting for some little feisty creatures to descend upon my thoughtfully placed mini-bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and artfully crafted, fresh zebra cakes. Time spent in this position has exceeded what one would call "normal" or "sane" so my keister is as raw as it could be but I know, in the deep recesses of my insane noggin, that all will be well once the little monsters get a whiff of the bountiful meal I have provided.
The Writing huntress
I hunt. I write. I wear what some consider an unnecessary amount of camouflage face paint.