So...Yeah...

I realized today that I haven't written here in a few weeks.  Things aren't bad, per se; I'm simply Running on Empty Creativity-Wise.  In a crazed attempt to Jump-Start my brain, I pulled out my old writing notebooks from Back in the Day.

Drama, much?  I was so irritated at my twenty year old whining that I nearly threw the notebook into the trash.  Until...

I glanced at a random page shoved into the back of the binder.  There, among the torrid agony of love gone bad, was the following gem:

                         Drunken Hearts Speak Sober Words

I remember who said it to me, why, and when.  I remember the sobriety that hit me like a shovel to the head.  I remember the bar [long since closed], the drink [Jagermeister with cinnamon schnapps/fire bomb],  the time [10 pm, give or take], the night of the week [Saturday], and the phase of the moon [Waxing Gibbous].


I also remember stumbling home, scribbling those words on that very slip of paper, and hanging it on my dorm room mirror. 

I wish that I could say that this was the Magic Pill I needed to put me on the right path.  I wish I could say that life was instantly perfect and that it was the last time I ever took a drink.

But it wasn't.

Not by a long shot.

Random

I bought a packet of Khatta Meetha the other day and let all of my coworkers taste it.  The results were mixed, but most just found it odd.  Not bad, just odd.

New Boss, however, refused to try it.  He said it sounded weird.  What?  It's food.  It's different.  Just try it!  But no.  No amount of cajoling, needling or begging would make him cave.  Not even when I told him it was Indian Fiddle Faddle...that looks like puffed wheat with peanuts and tastes like curry.

Buzz kill. 


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A guy in our neighborhood is known to carry a baseball bat.  This, in itself, isn't odd.  If he was going to play baseball.  I don't think that's his intent, however.

Nope.  The baseball bat is tied securely to a heavy rope, and slung over his shoulder like a backpack.

We alternately call him Mad Max and Thunderdome.

Not to his face, though.  That'd just be stupid.

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In other news, I accidentally flashed New Boss today.  I consider his horrified expression an official quid pro quo for last Friday, when he insisted on dialoguing with me while his finger was up his nose.

That's pretty much all I have to say on that subject.

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Open Letters to the Closed Minded

Dear Neighbor,

Loudly referring to my family as "Those WHITE PEOPLE" while glaring in our direction with a menacing look?  Not really scaring us.  Seriously, dude.  Do you expect us to jump up in horror, loudly scream, "Dear God, we're honkies!" and run willy-nilly into the woods?  Please.

Also, we're no longer the CWP [Complimentary White People] in the neighborhood.  Perhaps you should emphasize the word "THOSE" instead.

Just a thought.

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Dear Former Co-Worker,

You are a scum sucking sack of swill.  You are a liar, a cheat, a misogynistic slime-ball that sucked the hope and joy out of our office for far too long.  I can't believe you weren't fired.

We threw a party after you left.  We almost invited HR, but didn't want to get them into trouble.


Good Riddance to you, and your decrepit excuse for talent and a conscience. 

I hope I never see you again.

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***Feel Free to leave your OWN Open Letters in the comments, or add to the letters shown above.***

Much love to YOU,

rennratt

A Progress of Sorts..

I wish that I could say that the past few weeks have been filled with excessive writing, bliss and overall progress.  That, however, would be a lie.  That's not to say that life has been terrible, though.

I have spent much of the past few weeks outside, in a vain attempt to become Less White.  Seriously.  In spite of a rich DNA that mixes Irish Rebel (redundant, I know) and raging Miq'maq, my coloring is that of Recently Drained Corpse.  It probably doesn't help that I insist on coloring my hair a glorious shade of Dear God Red, as it likely gives me the appearance of a rather hyperactive Goth or a Shirley Manson acolyte. But I digress.

In addition to Being Outside, I have cleaned house (yawn), read (sigh), worked (scream) and hung out with friends and family (yay!).  I have also spent much extended time on Facebook, which is the Ruiner of All Creativity and Waster of Precious Time.  It's currently my drug of choice, since I haven't found a replacement for Dr. Doogie (after 3 years!)  - and the painkillers aren't doing the job anymore.  Again, I digress.

Work is tolerable, with a sudden upswing in random items to do.  I fear this is the final Mighty Yawp, however.  Higher Ups are being terminated at a rapid pace, and that is never a good sign.  Sadly, it is a necessity - and it should have happened a long time ago.  Destrukto has been a top heavy organization for years, with Managers of Managers who Manage.  Redundancy abounds, and the Real Cost Cutting Measures must take effect now. I've said it before, but the reality is there:  Closing Time Looms for Destrukto.  For now, however, I will merely continue to work, and be thankful that I have a job.

I have finally begun working on my screen play again.  I started this morning.  Granted, I'm not writing dialogue, but I AM working on it.  I have decided to take the flip approach to the story, and am writing it from a MALE point of view.  It is purely stream of consciousness writing at the moment, but it's an interesting exercise.  I plan to turn it in to the Head Male Writer (that'd be Andy, y'all) and ask for his input.  I'm interested to see just how close I can get to 'crawling in to a guy's head', camping out, and writing.  I'll let you know how it turns out.

In the mean time, I think it's time to go back outside.  I'm wearing shorts again, and am pretty sure my legs just blinded the dog...