RarityEQM is the first close friend of mine to die. Their last gift was to bestow me with the ability to cry and mourn and feel for another. My head hasn't been the same. Writing is getting tough. I fear I may be losing myself in all regards.

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This was a story I begun long ago, tired and in a mood, locking myself in a bathroom for a time. I was having all these crazy thoughts as I stood before the glass. Then it occurred to me. Looking at my face, normal as it was—nothing of what I thought was reflected there.

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Howdy folks. Usually I tend to write a blog every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday as to keep in the swing of things. But writing... has been a lot harder as of late. No amount of chugged Monsters can seem to return my flow to me. Been writing a bit more like RarityEQM. She had a metaphorical prose. Her advice wasn't to find synomoms. Rather, to enhance writing, you have to find similar metaphors.

Hair did not just fall over her face.

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Workin' It

One day....One day darlings...

3: Write a story with over 1000 likes.

7: Write a popular story about Diamond Dancer with more than 100 likes

I know shit like this is pointless after the fact—but I just have to fucking to do it.

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I want to open this blog in immense gratitude for the support and care others have shown to me by various people on this website. That generosity itself, from friends and strangers, was a fundamental trait of RarityEQM. I wasn't sure if I could cry in failing to do so for many years. Yet I have done so more in two days than I have in twenty years.

It's been the first time in a long while that I've been weak and vulnerable.

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Please please please.

Please please.

Please.

Oi folks.

Going to make this quick that the group of us are going to fuck the dog and produce an audio reading for our story. It should be a wonderful, horrible, and then a wonderful time. We'll be drunk and we'll also be on Twitch.

Here's the link.

Hope to see you there or not. The recording will on the story and youtube afterward.

Later!

I was never informed as a kid on how you are supposed to remember people, the ones still here and the ones who are not, the degree, in which, you are supposed to feel about them and, what particular acts are included in remembering.

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I would open this afterword with a common introduction of 'it's funny how' only to realize that what I have to say is not at all funny. Maybe a touch to the mind in the tiniest stroke of irony. 'It's interesting how' would be more accurate—but one tends to close their eyes, silently groan, doomed to a few minutes of listening to a knobhead speech.

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