Muse sick? No… She’s simply Liszt less.
My brain wants meditation music.
Yet I’m listening to George Thorogood singing, “Bad to the Bone?”
The overthinking brain whispers, “I don’t care.”
The subconscious says, “I’m not listening.”
Insomnia by any other name is the septic tank of denial.
Or — as Alma loves to say — “I’ll cross that bridge when it burns behind me.”
Nevermind that Alma is a character in my books.
Is there such a thing as OVERWRITING?
I’m reviewing book 7 and wondering how in hell this brain created an entirely different plane of existence.
No, they’re not characters, they are friend, nemesis, fallible, and most of all they’re the product of rampant overthinking.
Imaginary friends and foes can’t hurt you. If you hate them, the living don’t get hurt.
Pixels full of personality?
No, A mind full of possibilities looking for expression.
Perhaps Albert is correct — then again, do I want to take advice from someone who doesn’t even know how to comb his hair?
I watch life speeding by, look at the woman in the mirror who stares at me with hollow eyes and asks, “Where is the little girl with so many dreams?”
She looks back at me and says, “A reflection of your life.”
What I needed was friend therapy, not a train wreck.
Most days, I resemble this dog:
In another 3 hours I have to go to work. So far, I’ve managed to get 5 hours sleep. Two more will make seven. From my calculations, I need 9 hours of sleep each night.
It’s going to take 2000 hours of continuous sleep to make up for the loss.
It means I’ll have to be in a comma for 83 days.
Did I mention that math and editing aren’t my forte?
“Muse sick?” The punster in my head asks.
My battling brain cells look like a fight scene from a Lord Of The Rings movie.
It’s no wonder I’m always on the verge of migraine.
Joelle (no rest for the leery) LeGendre