when i was in my mid-to-late twenties i used to have horrible horrible nightmares that would wake me up in the middle of the night. these dreams would leave me awake, sweaty, and totally terrified of something that i couldn’t ever name. the only thing that would soothe me waslistening to The Lemonhead’s “Confetti” over and over and over and over again.
i have no idea why that song, but for some reason all the notes in “Confetti” clicked the right way in all my terrified synapses. anyway, that song just came on Kathleen Turner Overdrive and is helping me battle the double-plus blah blah blah that’s been totally dominating this monday morning.
so yeah, double-plus blah (i am still enamoured with the new speak, eventually i will tire of it, but for now, you will just have to put up with the new annoying habit of the weak [that’s a total freudian slip there because i meant week, but somehow it fits, no?]).
the double-plus blahs are a result of too much working and not enough quality time spent alone in my underpants. though that will all be remedied this weekend. i just have to get through the week. i don’t have anything, anything, anything to do this weekend besides work on my new short story (that is due in TEN DAYS). there is no bowling tournament, there is no book club, there are no obligations of any kind and the best part? the very best part? sister #4 will be off in WI visiting some friends. so i get to spend the quality underpants time all over the house without fear of recrimination.
now if i only had a short story idea. . . because i’m totally open to any idea at this point.
10 days is a LIFETIME.
Try four. FOUR LITTLE BABY DAYS.
*sob*
well on the fourth day, you can get totally plastered, because you will deserve it.
Have you ever seen a kid at a theme park who is crying; like one of the “Happiest Place on Earth” theme park and the kid is still crying?
I wonder if it’s a spoiled brat whose Mommy and Daddy doted on their pint-sized progeny until little pee-wee was so jaded by the smug grin on Pooh’s face that he wanted nothing more than to kick that silly old bear right in his silly old nutsack. But then I also wonder if there’s another story: Not in the old Paul Whateverhisnameis’ old, “now you know the REST of the story” kind of chestnut way, but something really bad… like “spiders on your eyelids” bad.
I think your story shouldn’t be about the kid: Either he’s an unlikable brat or it’s another boo-fucking-hoo sob story. I think you should be writing about the observer, how he/she is projecting these scenarios onto the wailing waif. Why would he/she think of the scenario where his younger brother died in a car accident half a year ago, and wouldn’t be able to join them. Why the hell would that sick bastard think of THAT?
I guess what I’m suggesting is akin to retelling the dog bites man story from the view of the nurse at the hospital treating the dog bite.