Have you ever tried to lift a full bucket with a metal handle that insists on digging into your skin? Yes? No? I want to say no, because really who uses buckets anymore except for us. We're kicking it told school, man. For... no real reason, but hey, it's still something I guess.
Anyway, I have it into my head that if I can't accomplish this task or that task, I will never make it out in the real world. So I force myself to heave the blue plastic bucket and true not to rip a hole through my palms although that would be kind of cool, wouldn't it? "My fingers got decapitated by a bucket handle!" I mean come on, who doesn't want to say that some day? Just me?
Let's skip that because now it's like two days later and I don't even know what I was going for with that.
So, I've almost (almost) written a novel. In, what, 19 days? I have 47,000 words. I need 50,000 to win. I'm almost there. The plot is only just peeking out of it's corner in dejected-land. I'm crazy. My story is crazy. And also makes no sense because what is it really about anyway.
There's that, yeah.
I used to think Dirty Dancing was about pilgrims who would... dirty dance, you know, but it wasn't allowed in the church.
My thoughts never made sense. They still don't, but hey. At least I do think.
If I write 3,000 words today, I'll have written 50,000 words in twenty days.
I'll try.
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