Senseless Sunday Sarcasm: Confessions of the once beautiful

Well… maybe not beautiful.

My best friend, who lived on the other side of our block, had two brothers. 

When you’re a teen and two guys resembling the younger versions of Hugh Jackman are in a living room ironing their own clothes, what is a girl to think?

A 14-year-old is rarely graced with couth.  If there were such a thing as double uncouth, I was doctorate level. 

I laughed at guys ironing, and insulted their mother’s cooking when the one I liked best was scraping goops of grease into the trash can behind their home.

My friend knew how I felt about her oldest brother and she asked him what he thought of me.

“She’s cute, but no raving beauty.”

His answer was probably in retaliation for asking why his mom didn’t shave the hairs off her giant mole.

In his mother’s defense, she was a kind person, very loving, and her children grew to be fine people.  Decades later, when I think of her, all I see is that giant mole with thick hairs jutting out from her chin.

Maybe that was the reason why, at the age of 26, I had 5 of the accursed things removed from my face and neck.  I didn’t want to be remembered as a giant, hairy mole.

But I digress.  Back to the confessions…

1.  If I’m reading a book I don’t want long, flowery explanations about the sunset, scenery, and sensations.  That’s probably why I liked Asimov’s Foundation trilogy.

2.  If I’m watching a series, I’m interested in the story, not a 5-minute sex scene.  It’s worse than sitting through a long explanation about the scenery.

3.  I used to watch the series “Dallas” that ran from 1978 – 91, and stopped watching it after an entire season of Bobby as a bad guy ended up to be a dream.  I despise any book, movie, or series that builds up the drama and then, at the end, it was only a dream.

NaNoWriMo dawns

I’ll be participating in NaNoWriMo again this year.  My all-time record for finishing a book with over 50,000 words?  20 days.  You don’t do that by stopping to describe the sunsets.  You serve up the meat and potatoes, then worry about the kind of dessert you’ll have after the meal.

 Now I’m hungry!

What to have for breakfast?  Will it be the beef bratwurst served with scrambled eggs and toast; or yogurt and honey?

My brain is not ready for that level of decision-making.

It’s Sunday.  I’m going back to bed.  Maybe this time I will, once again, dream an entire book.

That’s how I wrote Atto Run.