At TypeTrigger, you get a prompt every four hours and space to write up to 300 words.
My love, it is time for me to move on. You know that I love you, but I can’t spend the rest of my life with one man.
Remember those happy days when I would teasingly call you a “geek,” a “nerd,” a “klutz,” a “boob,” a “fool,” and an “impotent reject.” How we’d laugh! Even though it was so true.
Don’t take this personally! ;)
Yesterday I wrote to you, “kissing you off.”
(Is that offensive, “kissing you off?” I don’t mean it to be. Also, sorry for the typo in my email. ;))
(That last ) is just the closing ), not a )) meaning a really big smile. ;).)
(I know you’re one of those guys who hates the ;), but jeez, John, really? That explanation of yours about the ;)? I know you’ve got a life, or you had one before I dropped you, but really, get a life! ;))
(But seriously, that’s not why I left you.)
So I got your text. Who is it? you ask. I won’t lie. It’s Fred.
Fred! you going to go. Fred!
I know. He’s a drip. But now he’s my drip.
I’ve traded a drip for a drip! What’s wrong with me?!? LOL
I’ll always love you, John, sort of. Fred says hello. ;)
“Drink your milk. Don’t make me say it again.”
“Aw, Ma. Please?”
“It’s good for you. Mazie’s grain is costing me a fortune.”
“She’s still a goat.”
“Goat’s milk is good for you. Its proteins form a softer curd in your stomach.”
“I am not letting Mazie’s milk go to waste. This is the most I’ve got out of her yet. I’m getting good at milking her.”
“Dad says you should sell the goat and take up knitting. He says you spend way to much time fooling around with her.”
“Your dad is out in the garage with his head under the hood of that clunky Impala of his. I rest my case. And by the way, I want you to start helping with Mazie. If you drink her milk, you should be part of the team that produces it.”
“If my buddies find out I’m milking a goat, they’ll make my life miserable.”
“The next time one of them comes over, we’ll give him a glass of it without telling him what it is. Then you can tease him back. Listen, milking a goat is not as easy as it looks. I’ve got to go out right now and give Mazie an iodine teat dip. When I come back, that glass better be empty. If you pour it out, I’ll know and you’ll be grounded.”
“Can I put some chocolate syrup in it?”
“Sure. Dip a cookie in it if you want. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
First results of my “Famous Last Words” research:
Abraham Lincoln – “While you’re up, get me a coke.”
Beatrix Potter – “I should never have had that rabbit for dinner.”
Lazarus – “I’ll be back.”
Bucky (a pet mole) – “I see light at the end of the tunnel.”
I can do this.
I don’t need to be perfect. The first of many. What does Malcolm Gladwell say? Ten thousand times to reach mastery?
Is that ten thousand times going solo or can I count the times when I had guidance or a partner?
Ten thousand times… Jeez.
I want to get this right but I’m no perfectionist. Once or twice a day for a couple of weeks; I’ll settle for that, assuming I’m still alive.
Stop thinking and focus. Don’t get distracted and lose it. It’s all about balance. It’s all in the hands and arms and shoulders. And hips and legs. I guess it’s about the whole body. Including the brain. But not thinking too much.
All the daydreaming I’ve done about this. Ironic if daydreaming ruined it all now.
Lack of concentration. That’s my downfall. No will to win. No ambition. I’m a slacker.
Admit it. That’s why I’m doing this now when I’m not supposed to. I’m just taking a shortcut. I’m not ready for this. Just too lazy to put in the hours.
Doesn’t matter. No backing out now. Do or die. Come out of this in one piece and quit tomorrow, but come out of it alive.
Never again… No, wait. That was… I can do this. That was the hard part. A little practice and I’ll be able to do this in my sleep.
Whew. Once was enough. Or I’ll see how I feel tomorrow.