A fledgling writer

As a young woman on the threshold of turning dirty thirty, you would think I am starting to have some direction in my life, some sense of well-being, stability. Well I don't. Or at least I don't feel like it. And honestly, I'm ok with that. Really, lately I feel more like a carcass or flesh bag being drug by the neck over damp, musty ground, all moist and covered in grit, leaving threadlike trails of muddy water behind me. But we'll get to that some other time.

First off, I really dislike the word moist. And the word blog. Let's change it to something different, shall we? Let's go with talk instead. Come visit my talk. No- that doesn't sound right. Or maybe spot. Nope. Sounds like biopsy. Bitching spot perhaps. No, that's not ladylike. And I couldn't send it to my mother or pastor. Jesus sure wouldn't like it and it makes me sound disgruntled. How about locale? I like it. Come visit my locale. I like that. I love my thesaurus.

At my locale I jot down my thoughts. Or I guess I will jot down my thoughts at some point. Anyway, thanks for showing up to my locale. I hope you come back sometime.

Props to Lisa for getting me started on this. I like it already.