In other thoughts, do you ever want to share an anecdote about yourself that reveals some personal characteristic, but then you pause and think: well, it's okay to share with most readers, but what about that imaginary serial killer? If he learned of my fear of squirrels, my atrophied left arm, etc, who knows what he might do with this indiscreet information? I imagine a killer slowly and carefully collecting casually dropped bits of information to build a revealing mosaic of me, and that one day he'll stalk and abduct me--coming up from the left, of course--and I'll find myself a victim of all my worst fears and bugbears, captive in a room full of squirrels, forced to listen to folk music and wear scratchy underwear, etc.
But I actually like squirrels and folk music and could live with scratchy panties, so I have given nothing away ha ha!
Anyway, I will nervously or maybe bravely confess the fact of my possibly weaker than normal ankles, because I was thinking about horror movies--how some woman is always running through a forest from the killer and trips and falls and you think in a contemptuous Darwinian way, "You weak lame-ass *girl*! You don't *deserve* to live!" But in fact I'd be that woman, because I can trip and twist a foot while walking at a slow pace on a perfectly level surface wearing flat sneakers. So sad.
This morning it was one of those times when there's a heavy cloud cover and light is diffused and somehow omnipresent--the world is suddenly timeless. It isn't nine a.m. or three p.m. It's just a kind of weird stasis, the empty background of dreams or the blank canvas of a story.
I make no sense but I kill some time.
ETA: I do not have an atrophied left arm, by the way. It is strong from lifting peeps.
