My brain won’t shut off for this new secret fic about secrets, so when I woke up at six this morning I put the coffee on, put the dogs outside and followed them into the backyard with my laptop and pack of smokes so I could get going on the next chapter.
Did I mention it’s around thirty degrees outside?
Without the wind chill factor?
But I need the peace and quiet with no distractions in order to do any serious writing. And cigarettes. I need cigarettes, but I don’t smoke inside the house. So I stayed out there with my cup of hot turned ice coffee, trembling like a whore in church, while I typed with my quick forming Smurf fingers.
No biggie. I do it all the time.
I kept at it for three hours and didn’t go back inside until my laptop battery was on its last legs – or 7% power left – so inside I went to feed it its much needed charge. Baby Daddy was awake by then and sitting at the desktop computer in the family room, so I went into the living room where my charging cord is plugged in and assumed my standard position on the loveseat, with the standard dog shoving match on who would get the most room on the space remaining on my legs after the laptop was in my lap commencing immediately thereafter.
Lou C. Fur defeated Dementia Dog by TKO.
Baby Daddy doesn’t know I write fanfiction. Well, he might know, but he doesn’t ask and I don’t tell. We’re like the US government and a homosexual in the military circa 1994.
Don’t judge. It works for us.
So there I was with STWK Sookie stomping around in my head, sucking her teeth, making rude hand gestures and moving her neck like a pissed off chicken wanting a cock fight.
In more ways than one.
But Baby Daddy decided to come into the living room and sat down beside the coffee table on the floor, so I couldn’t go back to writing.
He was right there!
So I turned and gave him the ‘What the hell? Shouldn’t you be looking at NY Yankee trades online or something?’ look.
He looked back at me and said, “I had a dream.”
Me too. Mine involved Alexander Skarsgard, but I doubt you want the details.
He’s not telepathic – obviously or else we’d be divorced – and continued on with, “There was a mouse in the pantry, but instead of regular mouse feet, it had feet like a tree frog. With suction cups.”
What did you smoke before bed and why didn’t you share?
“It was small, like a tree frog. So I caught it. In a can. I let it go outside.”
And that ladies – I don’t think there are any gentlemen out there in my little piece of cyber land – is why I married the man. Even in his dreams he knows I would be uber pissed if he killed a mouse, regardless of what kind of mutant frog feet it had.
Well, I married him mostly for that and because there were two lines on the stick when I peed on it, but as long as he doesn’t ask, I won’t tell.