There once was this girl. We can call her Anne. Not saying that's her name but we'll call her that anyway.
This Anne, the one in the story, she had this thing she really loved to do. For me it would be making things, particularly stories, but I'm not Anne so we'll say the thing was... I dunno, cooking.
I really hate cooking (seriously, loathe it) but Anne really enjoyed it for some odd reason I can't comprehend. The problem was, she had a broken stove, a sink that spit out brown sewage for water, and all her pots and pans were cracked and rusty. There were weevils in her dry goods and roaches in her cupboards. As much as Anne desperately wanted to cook, there was always something standing between her and that tasty home-cooked meal.
So what did she do?
Apparently, she moved. Out of her crappy apartment. Away from the weevils and brown sewer-water. I have no moral to this story.
My life is kind of chaotic right now. Lots in transition. Nothing is final. Also, I moved.
I just wanna write, dammit.
Be back soon with more exciting news and stories that make more sense (hopefully).