I meant to write yesterday, and even thought about it all day and went to sleep without doing it anyway. I was going to title the post the last 3000 words because that is how much I have left to write before my story about the monster is officially novella length. I genuinely thought the story was going to last long enough that I would get a full novel out of it, and if I concentrated on it, I’m sure I could stretch the bullshit out long enough to make it that but honestly, I’m tired of thinking about him. I’m tired of revisiting every lie he told me and squeezing out every bit of self loathing it took to believe what he said. Maybe that is why I opted for going to bed to writing yesterday and why after technically finishing the story three months after I met him (in my mind anyway) I still have 3000 words to go. I wanted to be finished with it by his 30th birthday which is at the end of January and now I just want to be finished, period. Once I am finished with it, I am finished with him and it’s dragging way past the sell by date. I don’t want him to die but I wish he were dead, you know? I think I’m trying to make it reasonable for me to murder him in the story which is so ridiculous because that is never the rational answer to any problem. And it is also not like I’m a normal person so ensconced in what is right and wrong and how I look to other people that I behave like I’m super mentally healthy, the reality is murder could pretty much happen to any of us any time and there isn’t always a real reason for anything people do, at least one that can be logically traced back- or perhaps there is, and we aren’t complicated and I’m just trying to make the story one Sherlock Holmes would figure out after the first line.
Holmes isn’t real and people today don’t read.
Can’t, even.
I worry and fret over nothing.
Nothing I do will matter in 5000 years. Probably. Surely. Definitely, Right?
I have forgotten exactly how I was going to free write the last 3000 words but if I had written that much it should have been called last 6000 and if I could have written 3000 about writing 3000 that’s pretty pathetic actually. Accepting reality isn’t my strong suit yet, I have always been able to pick up on it, to point it out, to rely on it, but live in it, and believe it- not something I wanted to do and now I feel desperate (as usual) to accept forward motion and keep going- He’s let go and these final words will be the nail in the coffin I need to seal his fate forever in my mind where he runs wild every 28 days. So I’m glad I didn’t write that shit yesterday. I’m actually quite grateful on this Thanksgiving morning of a lot of things I haven’t done. And guess what else, I slept well.
It happened. Find out what, sugar. https://books2read.com/b/b6MW2Z
My Mind, My Mood, My delicately poisoned pen... 
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