Imagine if you will that I am a tootsie-roll pop (orange flavored) and my life is the branch that the owl sits on who wants to know how many licks it will take to get to the center and the owl is all that nagging shit that is shitty in my life that I don’t want to talk about but the little fucker just won’t shut up?!
So, conundrum is, do I chop down the tree so the owl will fly away? Do I shoot the owl and leave the branch? Do I lick myself (shut up perverts, I am being freakin metaphorical) and find out on my own how many it takes to get to the center of it all?
I have been thinking of an old interwebs-type friend Lily and just recently she was talking about how kick-starting her self in writing can be a challenge. Well, she is an actual novelist who writes books and the blog her is side deal so it makes sense for her to have to balance that shit out.
MOI, on the other hand, has no excuse. None. I am done with school, have a great job at a world renowned hospital, kids are great, blahblahblah.
I have all this stuff in my head and I can’t find anywhere to put it down. I feel as though I am constantly living in some snooty assed house with nary a doily to be found and I have this large dripping glass of ice tea and I have to pee and put it down and if I do I will make a permanent mark on some really nice piece of furniture and will be in so much trouble.
How many metaphors can I conjure in one post?
I am certain the answer is a trillion if it means I can avoid all the actual thinking of concrete stuff.
SO, blahblahblah, indeed.