The Republican candidate for President—whose name shall not be invoked—thinks I'm a victim. Ha! Talk about projecting and being judgmental. No, no, come back. I'm not going to muse about politics today. Bleah. Today, I give you a look into this writer's belfry, as in bats in. The other day I found a file on my desktop with the title 88888...8887.doc. Of course curiosity got me and I opened it. Ha ha! on me. The Word file was my writing journal, the one I had started a few months ago with good intentions. Uh-huh. I was fishing around in my head for a story to latch onto. It had (and has) been a long while since I tried. The narrator a woman in her late 50s. A lot of ways I could go with that. A lot of ways. Did I? No. Will I? I don't know.     See. This became a post. Ha! Sorry for the blurriness of the photos of the scribbles. Hmmm, maybe that's a projection of my imagination right now. What you read is actually less than 855 words. I left out ...

Pain. We take painkillers for the pain. My question is this: Is the pain still there even though we no longer feel it because we're on the painkiller? Okay, another question. How does the painkiller know which particular spot to de-pain? Or, is it just our whole body has become numb? What, still another question? Molly the Cat. She's a bed hogger. Sometimes, by the time I go to bed, Molly is  sleeping in the middle of my side of the bed. She likes to sleep on my side because I drape an extra blanket over me. It's  a fleece blanket. Ah. Just got it. The softness and warmth of fleece must remind her of her Mommy-Cat. Molly likes to knead it into that perfect now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep spot. Doesn't matter if I happen to be under the blankets. The Mama. Two weeks ago, the Mama was in the hospital for dehydration and pneumonia. The bacterial infection had jut begun, but because her body was dehydrated, it couldn't tackle the infection. The Mama had gotten the bug...