She has a virgin butthole. We had to go to surgery. The doctor didn’t make us, but we had met our deductible because of the baby; so we only had one shot, and Musette had dreamed of this moment. She’d never forgive herself for not taking the opportunity, but she’d be able to forgive herself should it go bad.

So far it hasn’t though. She’s still numb. I picked up high dose Ibuprofen for her while her family was at our apartment, gas leaking from her ass uncontrollably.

We have a prescription for Norcos on file that we didn’t pick up because opioids get into breast milk.

The woman who entered the prescription was the most furious typist that I have ever seen, and I thought that I was bad, but with me, I’m slamming down notes from the stratosphere–she was just entering prescription information.

The keyboard is the reason that I don’t write into my phone as much as some others do. You would think it a currentivist staple, a necessity, to write from one’s phone, but it doesn’t have the same effect–it doesn’t feel like beating something out of you. Writing from a phone is like a wrestling match; writing from a computer is like a boxing match.

But I’ve got to take what I can get. Anything is better than a drought. It’s not like you can tell the difference anyways.

Right hand, left hand: gotta be ambidextrous now that there is a baby in the picture, a bottle in one of my hands, nothing to do but think while I sit here in the dark, so I might as well do it out loud.

All I need is your report, says Lestrade.

I’d like to think that I’m working on it, but to say that would not just be lying to myself but lying to you as well, and when I’m lying to you, and you know that I know that I’m lying, well, that’s the worst kind of lie that I can tell, as a writer, a currentivist, the currentivst supreme.

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Posted in Lit

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