AbsoluteWrite Blog Chain February 2014 – Characters writing about Authors.
I ain’t one bit happy about doin’ this.
She told me I ain’t allowed to lie, and I can’t just draw a picture because the rules say it has to be words.
She says they ain’t her rules, but this is her blog, right?
I think she might be lyin’.
It’s her dang writers’ group, so how’d I wind up havin’ to do the writing here?
I’m gonna start me a blog and have her write a “guest post” and see how she likes it.
Her name ain’t Sixpence, for a start. It’s Orla. She says Orla means “golden one” in Irish, but I looked it up once in a dictionary. Said there it meant “to retch”, that’s when you’re fixin’ to puke. I ain’t kidding neither, you can go look it up yourself.
That’s kind of how I feel when she makes me read some of the stuff she’s wrote down about me. My throat gets all tight and my mouth gets to waterin’. I fake up a smile and scoot before she can ask me what I think.
What I think is that it’s embarrassin’.
I swear, she needs to get out more. Ain’t healthy to be spendin’ all day with her butt in a chair thinkin’ about things she ain’t got no business thinkin’ about. Writin’ down all the things I do and say like I’m some kind of social science project. Puttin’ my business out there for folk to peck over. Ain’t I had enough of that already? I mean, sure, I’m more interestin’ than she is, but that ain’t no reason to follow me around with a notebook.
There was this one day I read this post on here and my eyes about bugged out of my head. I even snuck away when she wasn’t lookin’ to check on her meds. I was sure she’d quit takin’ her crazy pills and zoomed straight from bein’ sorta normal into needin’ an intervention. Zero to cuckoo in 30 seconds flat. I ain’t sure I’d want to be around if she got for real crazy.
Anyways, I ended up askin’ her to take that post down. Nonsense about how I talk and whether it would bother people. I talk how I talk. Period. Pourin’ out some mess of words about it on to the internet ain’t gonna change nothin’. Just made her look like a plain fool, beggin’ for folk to take her as stupid-serious as she was takin’ herself. I told her so and she even said I was right, but she flat-out would not take it down. Said somethin’ about needin’ to be able to laugh at herself.
She is weird, I guess, and old too. I mean, she’s not grandma old or nothin’, but she ain’t young neither. And wearin’ hoodies and jeans and sneakers and those Tank Girl t-shirts all the time won’t change that. Frickin’ Tank Girl, that was one dumbass movie. And FOR THE LAST TIME I ain’t going to read the damn comics. Ain’t there some law that says you stop reading comic books BEFORE you turn 40? Ain’t no wonder she’s single. With a cat. And no, his name ain’t Sixpence neither.
She says she don’t mind that none, the bein’ single. Says she’s fine with not havin’ kids too. Says the cat’s enough to worry about. Even if he’s mostly just asleep.
Besides, if she had kids, she wouldn’t have half so much time to waste playin’ video games. She tries to tell me that playin’ games ain’t a waste of time, that you can learn stuff from ‘em and that they’re good for your brain. I ain’t buyin’ that. You ever see a 41-year-old the mornin’ after a late-night gaming session? Not pretty. Ain’t enough coffee in the world to jolt the blear off of her.
Coffee, that’s another thing she’s weird about. Ain’t no talking to her ‘til she’s filled and sunk that big ole mug on her desk twice over. Can’t talk to her if she’s readin’ neither, but that’s just normal.
I guess maybe, if I think on it, that stuff ain’t all that weird.
I might be bein’ kinda hard on her on account of how she’s makin’ me write this.
She makes a mean cup of coffee.
She built herself a computer, and it works real good.
She never does take offense when I get sarcastic at her.
She don’t hold grudges neither. Says they’re a waste of energy.
She taught me to cuss in four different languages. Putain de merde bordel fait chier. That one’s French, and it’s nasty.
She never, ever, calls me Abigail. Not even when she’s mad at me.
And she won’t mess with this none, not even the mean parts.
– Cuss, February 2014.
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