Or your colon. Or your horoscope.
Things are going bad to worse. I’ve been awake since three in the morning; a casualty of our rat terrier’s deathly fear of storms.
She’s from Texas, originally, which means she likes heat, spicy food and hates fucking storms, because I’m guessing she’s been through a few.
We don’t know the details of her background prior to our rescue; there’s been hints that it was a total hoarder situation, followed by a neglectful situation involving asshole kids.
My gut told me we needed her. Her gut tells me she can’t live without me.
She is my shadow. I am her helicopter parent.
We are in love.
My gut tells me, this one is going to hurt, when it finally comes, almost as much as the Pyrenees.
Or worse.
Target: 700 words
Written: 734 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Elfstones Of Shannara, Terry Brooks
Comics: Postal 13-14, Symmetry 6, Eden's Fall 1
Music: Uncle Anesthesia, Screaming Trees