At some point, I hope to have a dog. Or two.
One will be called Jack. The other George. If one of them happen to look like Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s dog in 50/50, it will be called Skeletor.
Yes, that is now my favourite animal-in-a-movie. If you haven’t seen the film, just watch it for the dog. Brilliant name for a skinny greyhound. (Oh and the movie is good too.)
See, this is what it’s all come down to. Ever since Nasty came and gone, I have lost the ability to string words together.
I know I never wrote Nobel Prize-worthy material, but it was something I enjoyed, and something that came easily. Naturally.
These days, I lay in bed wondering why I can’t write anymore. It’s not like my life has suddenly become uninteresting. Nor does it mean my life was particularly interesting to begin with. I don’t think you have to have an amazing life to write about anything at all. But words have suddenly turned away from me, like sand through the holes in my beat-up Converses. They come in one way and out the other. If I try to catch them, I end up with lumpy shit.
A good friend at work gave me an awesome Christmas present today. It’s a cuddly sheep with lavendar scented stuff up its ass. It’s the most softie-cuddly thing ever and I turned into a primary school girl cutching it with my left hand as I worked with my right. Utterly ridiculous I know but my boss is on holiday, its flippin’ Christmas, and I can’t remember the last time anyone gave me a cuddly toy.
His name is Josh and this is what he looks like. People who don’t know me very well think I’m some hardcore runner with the emotions of the Terminator. But really, I’ve been gushing about Josh all day, cradling him like a newborn, and have been warned not to talk to him – because he’s not a real person.