Until a few days ago, when I received my very first fountain pen, I didn’t even know that they use special ink. Fortunately, while searching for a video on how to fill my pen, I learned this fact.
The nearest stationery store didn’t have any, Office Depot doesn’t keep it in store, and after several minutes on hold with Michael’s we decided to just head up there and check for ourselves.
I found some sweet washi tape rolls for my card making endeavors, but the spot for the single type of fountain pen ink they carry was empty.
At least we found it at the Hobby Lobby down the street from the first Michael’s, otherwise we’d have had to drive another ten miles to the next nearest one, which also happens to be by a Hobby Lobby. I never thought about that before.
Anyway, we got home after stopping for frozen yogurt, and I filled my pen. It writes beautifully, thank you. Now to put some fancy inks on my Amazon wish list…
I got plans for writing things. Big plans. These plans are stupendous. Really.
But jeez, Christmas in retail.
Not often, but sometimes Jeremy would exhibit signs of being a cat. Oftentimes, this illness exhibited itself in the form of stealthily knocking full glasses of water off the coffee table and staring his mother in the eye as she waited for him to take responsibility for his actions.
At other times, he would poop in a box he kept in the corner of his bathroom full of kitty litter. This was his mother’s least favorite.
Sometimes he enjoyed batting a small piece of plastic around the linoleum of the kitchen floor, especially while his mother was trying to cook dinner.
Rarely, he would lie on the kitchen counter, roll casually to one side, and expose his belly for an indeterminate amount of belly rubs before he would widen his eyes, bare his teeth, and go for blood.
Doctors eventually gave up on conventional medications and recommended a flea collar.
Rosanna flipped through her submission one last time. She wasn’t reading, merely making sure that the words were still on the pages. She took a deep breath and sealed it up in the addressed envelope before dropping it in the mailbox.
Immediately, she went over the guidelines in her head, as best she remembered them. Which was pretty darn well, since she’d read them a hundred times if she’s read them once. Making it into this publication would be a dream come true.
Was her plot well thought out? Were her characters believable? Would they like her style? Was her story good enough? Was she good enough?
Rosanna made a fist with the hand that rested on her thigh. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. She was good enough. Her story was good enough. Her characters, her plot, her style: all good enough. It was going to happen this time.
She picked up a pint of Ben and Jerry’s on the way home to begin her waiting game.
It’s all a jumble up there in my head. This story wants to get out, that story wants to get out.
But they’re all jammed together at the door.
Well, that and I’ve been busy watching movies.
Twilight and Breaking Dawn Part 1. #sorrynotsorry
I want to use adjectives ending in -ent that contain odd combinations of consonants: lambent, nascent. But none of them are pertinent.
I want to wrap my body around the dollar fifty bottle of Wet n Wild Basic Beach I bought at the dollar store and let it fill the hollow inside me.
I feel slow, like a personification of the art project of people covered in honey. The CD skips in blatant opposition to this feeling. Mindless Self Indulgence stutters along.
I had stories to tell but they’ve changed their minds.
The air smells of poverty and mud.
Not going to the grocery store for garlic feels less like self-care and more like petty, misplaced passive aggression. I don’t care; I’m not going.