allegedly fiction

The books on the shelf were taunting me. TBR. And my Kindle’s obesity? Not going on a diet. Ever.

My coloring book and markers have hands on hips, tapping their felt-tip toes, waiting impatiently for brain-fogged days.

Yesterday morning they were nearly jubilant—my brain couldn’t read words, let alone edit for shit. Each sentence running on and on until I realized: I’m reading the same fucking sentence over and over.

The sun didn’t cooperate either. “Winter White” according to Sherwin-Williams. That’s not white. That’s dreary. I don’t care what version of white or gray you call it—the color is called Winter Fucking Gray.