If all is going according to plan, I should be rounding the 22,000 word bend on this 50,000 word race to the laughing academy. I have it on good authority that a number of people voluntarily write novels on a regular basis, which must explain the correlating data on drug abuse among laptop owners.
I'm having surgery on Friday, the 20th, and I fully expect my best work to come out that weekend. You can keep your odes to grecian urns and lovely trees.
Lortab is MY muse.
15: I'm thankful for my legs. If you were expecting a dewy-eyed tale starring crippled match girls or Tiny Tim, then you must be new here. I mean, yes, of course, I'm grateful to be ambulatory, but I never was very good with Victorian sensibilities, even under Matthew MacFadyan's spell.
No, I'm grateful that, from the quadriceps down, I am One. Hot. Mama.
My mother is 5' 9", but her ankles and wrists look like they came off a Lilliputian. Her bathroom mirror should have written on it "Caution: Bones are even tinier than they appear."
She's not alone. My grandmother, my Aunt Helen, several of my cousins - they all have limbs that look like Mother Nature ran out of arm and leg bones and just inserted fingers instead.
So despite my tendency to float toward my father's end of the gene pool - not to mention sharing in his regular celebration of all things chocolate and coated with a candy shell - my mother's genes fight back valiantly, allowing me to break even, at least at the extremities. I'm telling you, those genes may be small, but they're wiry.
Thus it is that, while most of the time I sport a physique that looks like it was designed by a three-year old ("Draw a snowman, sweetie. That's right, little circle, bigger circle, greeaaaat big lard filled circle.") it is balanced atop two beautifully proportioned legs that look freaking amazing in three inch heels.
Thanks, grandma. Thanks, mom. And thanks to whatever anonymous sparrow it was who generations ago fluttered into our family tree and started it all.
My suede boots and I won't let you down.