Fish Funerals – Who’da Thunk It

My niece’s fish died yesterday.  My niece is five so it is the first pet she has ever really had.   They have two little duster dogs, but they were around before she was, so they do not count as ownership when you are five.  This fish did.

The fish  was a Japanese fighting fish. The type that live in a trendy vase or something and are all purple and pink with funny looking scarf fins and what not. 

My sister rings to tell me the sad news…

SIS:   Ash’s fish died yesterday.

ME:  Oh no.

SIS:  We knew it was coming, he’d been floating side ways for a few days on and off.

ME:  Oh

SIS:  Yeah, kinda had this semi circle action going on. 

ME:  How’d Ash take it?

SIS:  Not good.  She screamed at first, the whole upside down fish thing, then cried like I had died or something.

ME:  Oh shit, poor kid.

SIS:  It gets worse.

ME:  Oh.

SIS:  There was the burial.

ME:  Of course there was.  Just because I have not had kids, does not mean I am not clued in about Fishy Heaven.  Did you tell her the S bend in the toilet is how they propel into heaven?

SIS:  (laughing)  No.

ME:  What did you tell her?

SIS:  That they get flushed to heaven.  It was pointless though, she cried and cried and insisted we have a proper burial.

ME:  Like an underground one?

SIS:  Yes

ME:  (laughing)

SIS:  Yes, hilarious I know.   She wanted it buried in the garden outside her bedroom window so she would see it when she wanted.

ME:  (laughing)  You buried a fish? 

SIS:  Yes

ME:  That is fucking funny.  Who does that?

SIS:  Apparently, we do.   We even had a service, all stood there by the little cross and said goodbye.

ME:  Stop.  There is a cross?

SIS:  (laughing) Yes, You have no idea the things I go through. 

ME:  You have a 3cm fish buried under a 30cm crucifix in a garden.  Oh my god, that is truly priceless (laughing)

SIS:  Screw you.  (laughing)

Posted by:  The Kid

Writus Interruptus

Ever notice how people will come around and start asking questions or tell you something while you are writing away like mad? They expect you to stop, shut it all down while you are on a roll, dammit, a roll.

My spouse is famous for this. Writus interruptus I call it to myself. I don’t say anything to him about it, just shoo him away with body language, like a cow swats a fly with its tail. Then if he keeps at it, I go ahead and shut it down until he’s through. Usually this is not important, whatever he wants to say. I could just tell him, “Can’t you see I’m writing?!?” But really, that would shut it all down and shut it down for a while. It’s easier to just take the interuptus and move the fuck on.

I rate this interruption similar to talking about bills during sex. I wonder how he’d like that? Or how about something like, “The car is broken, darling.”

I usually write at night so there will be no interruption because he works from home and jabbers all day on the phone. I’d rather stay up all night while everyone is asleep and write and just sleep late. That is what I do.

He travels a lot and I get a hell of a lot done while he is gone. I can write all day and all night. The last two weeks he has gone nowhere. I’m not blaming my writer’s block on him. I’m not. Besides, I got my pages done. I’m not stuck.

Ahhhhhhh.

 Posted by:  KillerDollie

Everybody down. This is a withdrawal!

You can tell how good or bad your day will be by what happens within the first hour after you woke up.  I’ll tell you what, the first hour, my first hour, today… I should have gone back to bed, dammit.

I had to go to the bank. I had to be there early in the morning. And I mean EARLY in the morning. Certainly not MY early, which under normal circumstances usually lays between 11:00 – 13:30. No, I mean fucking 7:30 early.  That, only by definition, is enough to ruin my entire day.

I crawl out of bed, I crawl to the bathroom, I don’t even have breakfast. I crawl to the bus-stop (because no normal sane human being can drive at such a horribly cruel early hour), I crawl out the bus, I crawl inside the bank. And I make it clear that I’m not in a good mood. It doesn’t take a fucking genius to realize I am NOT in a good mood. As a matter of fact, you have to be pretty dumb to even consider the possibility that I may be in high spirits.

After forty seven minutes and twenty nine seconds of waiting in the line, I have no moral and ethics left. I’m sleepy, my sense of patience has long ago expired, my feet are killing me, my spine is tied up and I’m hungry. I want out of that shithole and I want out NOW. 

I’m next. Yes! I made it. I’m next. I turn my head and smile at that cute guy whose job is to safely guard my money. I hadn’t realized how cute he is, actually.  Who really cares? I’m next. I turn my head to the front again…

Two people standing in front of me. Excuse me… what happened? What the hell happened? I AM next. I ask. The girl, she was here before, the cashier sent her to the guys upstairs, she’s back down now, she’s not supposed to wait in the line again. Duh! The woman, she has a back issue, it is her turn in reality, she had been waiting for her turn seated at the lounge. Okay… deep breath. I remind myself to take a veeeery deep breath.  Shit happens. Two more people and then it’s MY turn.

Girl, check. Woman, check. I’m next. Yes! I’m next. I do not dare turn to stare at the cute guy who guards my money. I don’t give a shit. It’s MY turn.

An old man, a very old man, a man so old that you’d think he has actually forgotten that yes, you fuckers, humans do die, approaches me. He asks me if he can take my turn. What the hell do you say to an old man, a man so old who had forgotten how to die?

But, remember, my patience is running out. No, as a matter of fact, I have run out of patience. It has never been my middle name, it certainly isn’t now.  However, I manage to keep me under control. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep me under control when I’m sleepy, in pain and hungry?

Well, whatever. The fact is, I am next. He is just an old man. I am next.

Till that man in an Armani suit and a Samsonite suitcase prances by and stands right in front of me. Okay, that is enough. That is fucking ENOUGH! I’ve fucking had it. I am not in a good mood, asshole, and you are going to feel it. In my most polite manners I tell him “You. Back”. He ignores me. Excuse me? Again. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is a freaking line. Get in the back”. He sneers. “I don’t have time for this, honey”. Honey? HONEY? Who the fuck does he think he is to call me by my name???

My mind creates very interesting scenes. I’m holding a gun, two guns, ten guns. I bolt on the counter. I’m pissed. I’m totally pissed. I’m also armed. When pissed and armed, I’m dangerous. ”Everybody down. This is a withdrawal. Any of you fucking pricks move and I’ll execute every one of you motherfuckers“.

Back to reality, the Armany guy is still right there in front of me with his perfect teeth blinding me painfully. “Listen, mister, I’ve been standing here for a little less than an hour. I don’t know what you do, I don’t care what you do, in fact I couldn’t care less what you do, but you either move or I will haunt you for the rest of the day, and consider this a promise”.

I don’t know whether it was my glazing eyes (you know, the eyes of a person who is just about ready to snap) or my perfectly screwed up mood which shone all over the place. Or the security guy who was coming up close. Or all of the above. The fact is that dude moved out of my way and…

Yes! It was finally MY TURN! MY. TURN.

I spent the rest of the day in bed. In bed. Because, when I’m not in a mood, I’m just not in a mood. 

Posted by: HoneyBunny

Deadlines: Permission to Procrastinate

I hate deadlines.  I hate that they give you a solid date to work to.  I hate that they give you time.   Time to write, time to story map, time to format, to get it right, to get it done; or in my case, time to do sweet fuck all.

See, deadlines give a structured time frame in which I can procrastinate before being forced to write, which ordinarily for me would be “whenever”. 

*Note:   For those with daily planners, “whenever” is usually, after breakfast, a mocha, few phone calls, another mocha, lunch, dinner, some cable, days, more days, and voila, we are there.

I think it comes down to brain wiring.  I have always been this way.   I get given a deadline, I have one right now actually, March 31st, but instead of getting the work done progressively, my brain says “No Zed, it’s ok, you have time, just fuck around and kick about and on March 31st we will go in guns blazing and get it done”. 

I guess you could say I am like that soldier on a video game that runs into the enemy camp, shooting the joint up and trying to win the stage without any preplanning or mapping.  This always ends up messy.   Sometimes you fluke it and win the stage, sometimes you don’t.   More often than not, the latter.

We all know what happens to those soldiers.  

Posted by:   The Kid

Can You Muthafuckas Say “Stuck”?

No, I ain’t up Shit Creek without a paddle. I’m at Shit Creek with hole in the bottom of the boat. Damn right it sucks.

Nobody can help by handing me a paddle or trying to bail me out. It just has to give.

Stuck where? Page 78, screenplay. Ironically, my two lead charaters are stuck too. I just need to stop staring at the screen and go go go. Just jump in and move. No life preserver.

Here I go. BTW, there is no shit in Shit Creek, that’s just the name. It is murky water, however. Full of snakes and alligators and slimey things I don’t know about yet, things I am not afraid of.

Posted by: KillerDollie