Welcome

I "should" be spending all my time searching for gainful employment, since I currently have no job.  So, what am I doing instead?  Creating a blog, of course.  Something that has nothing to do with earning money and will not pay the rent.  You see why I chose the blog name that I did, right? 

I've been writing for years, but have never tried to publish any of it.  Fear of failure, fear of success -- I don't know.  I won third place in a limerick writing contest once, and got paid $50. for writing an essay on "Why I Write."  Neither were published. 

But here, bwahahahahaha, on this page, I make the rules.  I decide.  And I'm putting it out there, baby.  No, it's not great prose.  But I found it amusing when I wrote it, and there may be a friend or two who agrees now. 
 

Eating My Words

      I live in a round room.  Pacing seduces me on a daily basis, as I work for inspiration and my meals, in that order.  Today I had a terrible decision to make.  Rebecca had to die -- but how?  Bludgeoned, with a two by four?  Or would holding her head under water, as her body thrashed helplessly against too much strength, be the way to go?  Blood splatters could ruin a good suit.  Water works as well and washes out.  Rebecca's lungs filled with fluid and she sank.  She'd come up again, bloated, white, with the ability to make grown men turn green.

     A rap on the steel door startled me.  Time to produce.  I slipped the pages through the narrow slot, while the transom mocked me.  A menu slid through.  The wait never changed, only the choices.  Two pounds of Alaskan King Crab meat with drawn butter, twice-baked potato made with cheddar cheese and real bacon, and baby carrots swimming in melted brown sugar.  Dessert was always chocolate.  Mousse, custard pie, ice cream.  My weaknesses are well known.  The alternative to this nirvana remained as plain as the gray walls that circled ‘round and ‘round me: succotash. 

     "Gain experience, lose weight.  Live like a princess while doing it."  I fell for the lie. 

     The voice was not pleased.  I hadn't thought Rebecca's death through.  No blood, no DNA, no way to prove whodunit.  No dinner.  None that I'd eat, anyway.
      So, here I sit in my turret, staring at the wall, wondering if I'll finish the book before it finishes me.  And I'm hungry.  So hungry.  That's why I write.