Lead Words & Bright Lights

Words feel like lead.

That’s why I didn’t post yesterday. I tried to write and the problem is that I was trying and it felt like it. When I’m in the zone or telling the truth, words flow. When I’m forcing, it’s…

Well…

Pardon the crass metaphor, but it’s dry sex.

[See that? A metaphor that communicates exactly how shitty writing feels. That’s good writing. lol.]

I don’t have anything profound this week, but here is more photographic evidence that I’ve been outside.

And with that, I wish you all Happy, Happy Whatever You Celebrate, Even If You Don’t Celebrate At All!

You can just hear Harry Connick, Jr. crooning through the photo.

Published by

a girl named rob

I used to be "skinny black girl." I'm now a slender woman on the other side of 35 with no new moniker who is not quite interested in writing under her given name. Still writing my life, a day (or some months) at a time. Also, still black.

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