Stupid blank pages.
I have zillions of unfinished stories rolling in my head but not are good enough to put on paper. I just tell them to myself at stoplights or while cooking dinner.
Dirty little tales of sex, submission and sometimes submarines.
Can you imagine submarine sex?
I think you would bonk your head often and it might echo weird.
I should write, something. But I won’t.
Work, Worry, and Weariness have made me paper thin. A crabby shell of my former merry kitten self.
I take many baths.