The writing process.

Yup, this pretty much covers it.

(source unknown)

thewritingprocess

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My problem with pens.

I just lost the black Sharpie I was using to draw the little cartoon in my last post, and remembered writing this, so I’m posting it again.

Now, back to looking for that danged pen. ūüė°

Originally posted on November 20, 2017

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I have a house full of old, nonworking pens. ¬†It’s not because I want them. ¬† Keeping up with pens and throwing away old ones is one thing I never seem to bother keeping up with. ¬† ¬†Whenever I need a pen, I can never, EVER find a working one. ¬†I have dozens of old markers that no longer have any ink in them, tens of cheap ballpoints I got for free somewhere with no ink in them and non-working clickers; I even have dried up pen refills with no actual pen to cover them. ¬†I have Sharpies with their nubs worn down to nothing. ¬†They all sit forlornly in old coffee mugs around the house.

People can’t understand why I can’t find a working pen when I need one. ¬†They look around at the mugs of pens in every room and on every available surface, and they also know I have drawers full of pens (as well as old phone chargers, paper clips, rubber bands, broken push pins, paid bills from 2003, business cards for businesses I’ll never use or have never heard of, a broken lighter with Y2K joke on it [no joke], and all the other detritus most of us wind up gathering somehow without any effort at all). ¬† I almost always wind up having to borrow their pen — if they’re carrying one — and I can see them just shaking their heads in bemused amazement.

I have the same problem with pencils. ¬†I have at least a hundred pencils — all with broken points or sharpened down to an inch or so (and still sporting broken points) — and not one sharpener. ¬† So the pencils I own are utterly useless. ¬† Maybe I should install a sharpener on the wall, like the one we kept on the basement stairs while I was growing up (I’ll never know why it was installed on the wall of the dark basement stairs, as if it was something to be embarrassed about).

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At least with the Internet, I rarely need a pen. ¬†But sometimes I do. ¬†There’s still the occasional form I need to fill out, or the birthday card I need to sign (I hate e-cards). ¬†Sometimes I have to leave post-it notes to myself on the bathroom mirror that say things like: ¬†BUY A PACK OF PENS TODAY!¬† Hah. ¬†I never learn. ¬† I never go out and buy a pack of pens for these moments. ¬†The one time recently that I did buy a pack, I somehow lost all those pens. ¬†But the old, dried up, broken ones stuck around like unwelcome guests.

And they MULTIPLY. ¬†You know that portal that’s hidden in the back of your washer that sucks your socks into an alternate universe? ¬† ¬†Well, I think there’s another portal — a reverse wormhole — from that same universe that spews broken old pens into ours. ¬†Maybe it somehow transforms our socks into pens. ¬†You never know.

Why don’t I just throw away all those broken and nonworking pens and pencils? ¬†Honestly, I don’t know why. ¬† ¬†It’s not sentimentality, ¬†and it’s not because “maybe one day I will use them in a multi-media project where I can glue them to a board with all the other useless junk in my drawers and call it art.” ¬†” No, I think the reason I don’t weed out all the old pens and pencils is pure laziness. ¬† The idea of going through all those mugs and drawers full of broken writing implements and testing them isn’t something I want to spend my day doing.

So the pens stay, and I continue to search in vain for a working pen when I need one.

Anyone want some of my old broken pens?

This guy sure has the Christmas spirit!

My son saw this guy with his car at a gas station, so he took this picture. Haha! Or even better, Hoho!

Life is full of surprises.

xmasguy

If the earth was flat.

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Media Accosted

Here’s a good read about Q-balls and other assorted nuts at the Tampa Trump rally.

Comments here are disabled.  Please leave comments on the original post.

claytoonz

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Donald Trump took his traveling freak show to Tampa Tuesday night and it was a coming out party for the worst of us.

He continued his war against the media, where he’s labeled them in the past as scum, dishonest, terrible people, bad actors, liars, fake news, and even the enemy of the American people. During the presidential campaign, he would single out MSNBC’s Katy Tur at rallies to the point she would need security to get out of the building without being harmed. In case you haven’t noticed yet, Donald Trump is a bully.

Another one of his favorite targets is Jim Acosta from CNN. On Tuesday, Acosta captured footage of Trump’s supporters screaming and cursing while flipping him off. Where do these people come from? They come from 4chan (and 8chan, which I just found existed. What the Hell is 8chan? A place for those who find 4chan…

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2 weird dreams I had as a kid.

An oldie but goodie.

Lucky Otters Haven

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I was a weird, sketchy kid who had weird dreams. When I was about 5 I had a dream about something called a ‚Äúclout‚ÄĚ that looked like an oversized steel wool pad. It was sitting on the small rug in front of my bed and I was too scared to put my feet on the floor because that clout thing was evil. It just sat there on the rug, in all its black malevolence, not moving, but I knew it was alive and meant to kill me. ¬† I knew if I put my feet on the floor the clout would suck me down into the Hell-portal it must have come from.

When I was around ¬†the same age, one morning I woke up doubled over with laughter. ¬† My dad asked me why I was laughing, and I remember saying, ‚Äúsomeone was throwing mud at my door.‚ÄĚ ¬†‚Ķ

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This is fine.

It might be an old meme, but it’s just so perfect right now.

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Sobering thought.

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Seen in town.

Nope, it’s not photoshopped.¬† ¬†WTF?

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The Boys and their tag team morning routine.

I have three cats.¬† BabyCat is my old girl, getting up there in years but as needy and neurotic as ever.¬† Then there are The Boys. Marley and Sheldon.¬† ¬†I may not have mentioned Marley before (named after Bob Marley), who is really no more than a big kitten, or catlet, since he is over 6 months but less than a year old.¬† That’s him above in my daughter’s arms, and he’s every bit as devilish as he looks.

Marley and Sheldon (my black and white tuxedo, pictured below) have a morning routine that works every time.¬† There is no way I’m getting back to sleep when they team up for their daily torment regimen.

Sheldon taught Marley a neat trick: knocking small objects off dressers, tables, etc.¬† Sheldon always did this to get attention, and he’d keep looking at you while he slowly extended his paw toward the object, slowly pushing it to the precipice, as if to make sure you were paying attention.¬† ¬†After the object fell, he’d yawn.¬† Jerk.

Now, Marley does this too.   Talk about double trouble.  I have a tag team of furry little monsters who like to cause mayhem in my bedroom every morning.    They do this to try to wake me up for a variety of reasons, or no reason at all.

Usually it works, because I’ll be out of bed chasing the little demons as they scamper off into the kitchen, or whatever.¬† ¬† They go to their respective food bowls, which usually have some food left in them, except at that time of day, a patch of the bowl at the bottom is visible.¬† ¬†To The Boys, if they can see the bottom of the bowl, there isn’t any food there and they are going to starve to death!¬† Fill my bowl before I die, human!

If the knocking objects onto the floor tactic doesn’t work, The Boys come up on the bed as I’m trying to sleep.¬† They have assigned roles, apparently:¬† Sheldon walks on my face, purring loudly and sometimes meowing pitifully into my ear.¬† ¬† He knows well enough not to extend his claws into my face while he’s walking on it, but sometimes he will deliver a juicy fart!¬† ¬† If he opts to walk on the soft underside of my arm or another soft, tender part of my body which I won’t name here instead, sometimes he will start to knead my¬† flesh like so much bread dough!¬† Ouch!¬† ¬†Meanwhile, Marley is scaling the curtains, batting some noisy object around on the hardwood floor, or leaping up on the dresser pushing things to the edge.

Once I get out of bed, I’m usually grumpy and cuss at them.¬† They go to their half empty food bowls and look at me as if to say, “what’s wrong, human? Why are you so upset?”¬† Sometimes they aren’t even hungry and just don’t want me to sleep in, or they want to go outside, even if it’s pouring rain and there’s no way they’ll stay out once they get there.

I love my little furry psychopaths and would do anything for them, but why can’t they let me sleep late sometimes?

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