Looks like deaths are down fifteen percent across the board in the US for March 2020 when compared to the previous average of the last four years. Guess ‘self-isolation’ does have something going for it, jus’ not Liberty.

Nasty thought laid out as a question: what if the so-called COVID-19 vaccine turns out to be laced with nano-technology that reconfigures inside the body as an RFID chip? I hate needles anyway!

There is a fine line between love and hate — and often I find myself at that between.

“…[W]e got them and shot them under Rule 303!” — Lieutenant Harry ‘Breaker’ Moran

Not even 10 minutes ago I was falling asleep while reading, put down the book, turned off my light and BLAM-O, I’m wide awake, my single piston brain firing away for all it is worth. I have no idea what in the hell this is all about.

So, I’m up writing and working on my third shot of whiskey since sunset…

Now to the real meat of my mind; writing. I thought about quitting it altogether, but I don’t think I can because it has been a part of my life for so long it would be like cutting off a part of my body. Here, take my pecker instead, I don’t use it save for a pee-straw and I think we have a couple of real plastic straws (not the paper one’s you get in California) in one of the kitchen cabinets that I can substitute for that thing.

Wait, another sip is needed…

Since not writing is an unacceptable stance to take, I think how about simply writing everything into one of the several spiral notebook I’ve got stashed away in this house. Maybe, maybe not.

Then I think: how about no longer writing stories and instead doing something like a ‘live journal.’ That’s an idea worth considering – I mean I am not getting famous, nor am I getting rich plying words to a blog – so why not write nonsense shit throughout the day and take some of the pressure of developing a story each time I wanna post something.

Let me have another taste for good measure…

Honestly, writing comes pretty easy for me as I have, in my effed-up manic-depressive, PTSD’d brain, idea upon idea of stories rolling around. It’s jus’ I don’t always have the energy or desire to pull them out my ass and set them to computer font (which is Liberation Serif 12.)

It’s been like this all my life and I can’t curtail it now. If I did, I am afraid I’d have a complete melt down because it is the ability to let words free flow, like they are now, that keeps me in the half-sane state of half-assed confusion I’ve managed to carve out in this juncture of my life.

Excuse me as I…ahh…

Yeah, that ‘Live Journal’ idea is sounding more and more like the way to go. Practical, no plot lines, no work-in-progress, no main characters…’cept little ol’ egotistical me.

Interesting that school districts have classified days missed as an “act of God” and they don’t have to be made up, yet God hasn’t been allowed in schools for years.

“I don’t believe having a baby is as painful as getting kicked in the nuts,” he stated emphatically.

“Pig!” she countered, in anger, “How can you say such a thing?”

“Women have babies, complain about the pain, but then turn around and have a second,” he explained, “I’ve never heard of a man in his right mind ask to be kicked in the balls even once, let alone a second time. ”

“You’re such a fucking misogynist,” she growled, before storming away and locking herself in their bedroom.

He sat on their couch, knowing it would be his bed that night.

After all the stupid shit I’ve done in my life, if die because I touched my face, I’m going to be pissed!

I’m old enough to remember when you could tell the difference between the National Enquirer tabloid and mainstream media reporting.

Peter lived in the small town of Virginia City, Nevada all of his life. Therefore he knew the rules about Six-mile Canyon’s short-cut.

The first was the easiest to follow: don’t use the short-cut. The second and third were to be followed if it were to be used – not at night and never under a full moon.

As for the short-cut, it ran throughout the entirety of the town. And it was known to be cursed.

Peter however couldn’t recall anyone ever having fallen victim to the curse. Further, he’d used the short-cut several times, becoming convinced that the so-called malediction wasn’t real.

One night, the 16-year-old had attended a going-away party at a friends house when he decided to use the short-cut to get home before his midnight curfew. Dark though it was, and with a full moon hidden behind a band of clouds, Peter turned down the cut.

Almost immediately he tripped over a vine or branch and fell to the ground. As he got to his feet, he found himself being tethered by tendrils that wrapped themselves tight about his head, waist, arms and legs.

Even as he struggled to escape, he felt himself lifted from the ground and splayed in every direction. The pain was eminence, but death came quick as Peter’s head was ripped violently from his neck followed by other parts of his body.

Within minutes, nothing remained of Peter, but the town’s quick fading memory of his existence and the Six-mile Canyon curse.